A Patient Man
by CopperPrincess
Summary: A character exploration of Robin Hood - follows the movie almost exactly with a few original things thrown in occasionally. Better explanation in A/N of Chapter 1. Rating is T (mentions assault, nudity, and war violence). Romance, drama, humor, family... all here!
1. 1: An Unexpected Guest

**Author's Note (please read)** : The story of Robin Longstride and Marion Loxley's relationship throughout the movie. Follows the movie almost exactly - special thanks to [ . /movie_ ?movie=robin-hood-2010] for having the script so I could look up the words of the dialogue as needed. Obviously, these characters are not my own, nor actually is the story line. What this story tries to be is a novel-ization of the movie with a greater focus on Robin and Marion's relationship, exploring their thoughts and motivations in a way the movie did not or could not. So any material that is mine is mine, and whatever is the property of the movie-people is theirs. That being said - PLEASE DO NOT PLAGIARIZE _MY_ WORK. I worked really hard on this story. Don't muck that up for me :)

Also - I live for feedback! If you liked it, hated it, somewhere-in-betweened it, please, write a review, leave a comment, and let me know! Even liking my story will let me know that people are enjoying my work as much as I have, and will inspire to me keep going and, always, improve.

On to the story!

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"Marion, who is here?" came a man's voice from within. They both glanced at the door, before Robin looked back at the woman before him, uncertain if he should respond. He hadn't been properly introduced yet, after all.

"A traveler, Walter," Marion called back. She glanced at him with something not quite panic in her eyes. Gritting her teeth visibly, she walked purposely to the door and shut it before turning back to Robin.

"This news will go very hard on him," she said gravely. Robin could now see, by the light of the fire in the large hearth, the worry and stress lines, especially about her mouth. Her concern for the old man pleased him, though he wasn't sure why. He didn't know her or, for that matter, the Lord of the house, this Walter.

"Bring him in!" called the voice from behind the now closed door. Marion looked back at Robin, imploring him with her eyes to do as she said.

"Yes, yes," she called back distractedly. Her eyes sought Robin's. "Tell him Robert is in the Holy Land, sends his love, and will return soon," she said, thinking quickly. There, that should please Walter. And, based on what their guest had said, it might not even be a lie. Well, the returning part was… she'd worry about sorting that truth out later. Right now –

"Marion," Walter said, pushing the door open with his staff. Robin's gaze snapped from the woman trying to coach him to the door, where his Lord and host had now appeared in his dressing gown. "Our traveler will be thirsty. Travelers are always thirsty. Is that not so?" He reached out with shaking hands for Marion, who stepped naturally forward to take them. "Your name, sir?"

Well, he would do his best to follow the woman's orders, but he had a mission, after all. "Longstride. Robin Longstride."

In the silence that followed Robin's announcement, several dogs ran by, barking.

"Do you mock me?" the older gentleman finally said. That was not the response Robin had been expecting. He glanced at Marion to see what her reaction was.

"Sir?" he asked quietly, unsure how to proceed. Marion was being no help now. Robin decided to forge ahead with his mission. The sooner he delivered the sword, the sooner he could be on his way – north, to escape the political storm in London and anyone who might be looking for him.

"Your son," Robin said, stepping forward and pulling the sword in its scabbard from about his waist, "he asked me to deliver this." The old man reached out a shaky hand. Robin guided the sword so that the old man's hand grasped the handle.

Walter pulled the sword halfway out the scabbard, the sound of the blade scraping free as familiar to him, ten years later, as the day Robert had boldly taken it from him.

Robin knew that what he was doing was right, was what the knight in France had asked him to do. But looking at the pain in the old man's eyes as he realized what Robin had brought him made Robin wish anyone else had been given this task but him. He may have grown up without a father, but he could still remember the love he had had for his father, before being abandoned.

Unbidden, a memory flashed into his mind. He could see… another man's face… like an older version of his own… that same look of pain that was in Walter's eyes now… staring back at him…

It was gone. That man wasn't here, wasn't real. Walter was.

"And how," asked Walter, still staring without seeing, "does Robert defend himself if he has no sword." His voice was flat, but somehow still full of grief. Robin looked away, unable to hold that pained gaze for long. "So. The prodigal son will not return, after all," Walter continued, voice quiet.

Robin looked at Marion for her reaction. She already knew Robert was dead, thanks to his own massive blunder earlier of blurting his mission to her without knowing who she was. Now, she was looking at Walter, and her gaze was full of sympathy.

She knew Walter, though somewhat feeble and completely blind, was still as sharp as a tack, and indeed incredibly clever. She had known he would figure it out. She had known it would be silly to think he wouldn't, that this…traveler could hand Walter the sword and say Robert sent his regards. But the pain in Walter's eyes cut her to the bone. As much as she had missed her husband, the truth was, she hadn't really known him all that well before he ran off to join King Richard on his Crusade. Walter, though… that was his son. His son who had left in anger. She could remember standing by the table in the great hall, setting it for supper, trying to pretend that her husband and father-in-law weren't having a shouting match for the ages just a week into her stay there… that her husband wasn't abandoning her already…

"No tears," Walter said, struggling for his composure. "No forgiveness from his father…" Marion wanted to weep, not only for Walter's pain, but for her own, and Robert's, as well. She couldn't wait for this traveler to have his meal and leave, so she could grieve in peace…

"No amends to be made," Walter whispered. He turned to Marion. Even in his grief, he remembered that he had a daughter in her, and that she would be hurting, too. They were partners, Marion and he. Together they had kept the hall running while his son had run off to play boy soldier in the King's army. He had seen the steely strength in her, as day after day, year after year, they somehow kept afloat, through tax seasons, poor harvests, and as more and more men left for the Crusade.

Marion moved toward Walter and rested her forehead on his shoulder, just as she had when he came to her room to talk to her the night Robert left. He kissed her forehead and hugged her close.

Robin was uncomfortably aware of the high emotions that were running around the room, and that he was the cause for a lot of the tension here. He had never met these people. His only introduction to them was to bring them news of the death of a loved one. He fidgeted. The stupid chainmail was heavy…

"Did you see him die?" Walter asked, turning back to Robin again.

Robin nodded and bowed his head. "I was with him when he passed," he said quietly, his voice gruff. He wished he could comfort him somehow. Then he realized, he could offer them something. "His final words were of the love and bond between a father and son."

Walter seemed now in control of himself. "Forgive my rudeness," he said. "My grief has been waiting on this day." He handed his staff to Marion, who was also pulling herself together. "So come, so that I may see you," Walter added, holding his hands out towards Robin.

Robin stepped forward, the chainmail clinking as he moved. Walter's hands found his upper arms, then moved up to his shoulders, his neck. He felt the smooth, worn skin as Walter's hands found his ears, his brow, his eyes, and down his straight nose. Walter's eyes closed, as if to visualize what his hands were telling him in his mind's eye. His fingers gently brushed Robin's eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, his chin. And then Walter spoke.

"Robin Longstride," he said thoughtfully. Robin glanced at Marion. Did Walter know something he did not? "A common enough, but noble Saxon name," Walter declared.

Marion smiled ruefully at Walter and Robin's exchange. She knew the old man well enough to know that he was up to something. He knew something he wasn't saying.

"So, you will dine with us," Walter said to Robin. It wasn't a question. "But first, you must bathe, son. You stink," Walter said, pulling a face.

Robin glanced quickly between Marion and Walter. Was this some sort of joke? Was he offending his hosts? What had happened to the emotionally intense atmosphere? Things were suddenly changing and happening very quickly. Walter had said he smelled and was now walking away. What was he supposed to do? Damn it all, he wasn't a knight, he wasn't a Lord – he didn't know how these things worked! And this chain mail was heavy! It was hard work just standing still in it, let alone he'd been traveling in it for days!

Walter was gone and Marion was left to show their guest to the wash room.

"Follow me," she said, and swiftly turned and walked purposefully towards the stairs. Robin hastened to keep up with her, chainmail clinking.

She showed him to a small room. Serving girls were bustling about, filling the large tub in the center with hot water from a cauldron that hung over the fire in the hearth. Marion told Robin to go ahead in and that she would be right back. He did as he was told and tried his best to stay out of the wenches' way as they worked, filling the tub almost to the brim with the steaming water.

"I've laid out some of my husband's clothes; I hope you don't find that too discomforting," Marion said, reappearing at the door with a bundle of clothes in her arms. She set the bundle on the sideboard and the serving girls, apparently finished with their task, hastened out of the room. Marion turned to follow them out the door. They did still have supper to prepare, and now they had a guest…

"My lady," Robin said, stepping forward from the corner of the room he had found to stay out of the way. Marion turned back. "I'll need some help with the chain mail."

Marion's gaze took in Robin from head to toe and she looked away quickly. The only part of him not covered in chain mail was his head. She shook herself.

"Winifred?" she called out the door. She stepped halfway out into the corridor. "Wi-Winifred?" There was no response. She was just going to have to be brave and do it herself. She turned back to the man in front of her and shut the door behind her. This situation called for privacy.

He wasn't saying anything. Why wasn't he saying anything? Did he think that just because her husband had worn the armor, she would know how it worked? Damn it why wasn't he saying anything. The silence was making her edgy and nervous, so she did what she always did – she lashed out.

He could see her nervousness. It was apparent in the way she held her shoulders and wouldn't meet his eyes directly. She made an impatient gesture with her stiff shoulders. Even without speaking, she was giving him orders. She seemed to be waiting for him to tell her what to do first.

"The coif has a clasp at the base of the neck," he said, not willing to stand awkwardly with her for longer than necessary. Plus, Walter had so helpfully reminded him that he smelled awful, and the heat and steam of the room were making it worse. He didn't want to offend the beautiful woman any longer than was absolutely necessary.

Still not meeting his eyes, Marion walked boldly up to him and reached up to the lacings just visible under his chin. Her nimble fingers undid the ties quickly and she took half a step back.

Robin turned around, pointing vaguely to his back. "If you take off the coif, you'll find lacings in the back of the tabard." Robin felt suddenly lighter as she removed the hood of chain mail from where it hung on his shoulders and heard the heavy thunk it made as she set the armor on the sideboard.

She was not overly gently as she pulled at the lacings of the tabard apart. No, she was all business. Each time she pulled at the lacings, he was jerked ever so slightly off balance. He couldn't help but wonder if this was payback for asking her to do such a menial task.

The lacings finally undone, she pulled the tabard and set it too on the sideboard. She moved around to face him again and started to work on the lacings under his left arm. He glanced at her face as she worked, more than aware still of his smell, and the fact that he was seriously in this woman's debt: not only for her help now, but also for the way he had told her about her husband.

She glanced up and held his gaze for a moment, seeming to understand the thoughts going on in his head. She had a wry twist to her lips, and was suddenly just a tiny bit gentler with the lacings.

He was so tired, and the chain mail weighed so much, that they ended up having to peel it off of him. She pulled the hauberk over his head, and he bent over to help, so she wouldn't have to lift it. She gave one last good tug, which unbalanced her from her crouch so that she fell on her bottom on the floor, the chain mail following suit. At last, he was free from the metal casing he had been carrying for days. He almost felt like he could fly, except the withering look Marion cast him from her less than dignified place on the wash room floor quickly grounded him again.

Too proud to accept the hand he offered to help her up, she stood again under her own willpower, so he picked up the chain mail to set it on the sideboard with the coif. Marion sighed, knowing that he still needed help, as the lacings of the shirt he wore were in the back. Men's clothing was so inconvenient sometimes. Without having to say anything, Robin turned so his lacings faced her and she set dutifully to work on them.

The shirt, too, was apparently too much for Robin, and after watching him struggle to get it over his head for a second, Marion simply grabbed the bottom of it and pulled it over his head. He bent over again so she could tug it right off him.

It came off much easier than the chain mail had, and as he straightened, Marion couldn't help but glance at Robin's torso. He was strong and solid, much like Robert had been. She balled up the shirt in her hands and hastily brought her gaze back to his face, lest he catch her staring at him.

"Thank you," he whispered, as if all his energy had been spent. He reached out to take the offensive-smelling garment from her. She snatched it away. "I'll have it washed," she said, and she swept out of the little room, chin held high. Robin turned to follow her movements, a second behind her quick movements.

At the door, Marion turned back for a moment, eyeing him one last time. The firelight bathed his bare chest and arms in golden light. There were a couple of large, dark scars on the left side of his body. That was all she saw before she went out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

What had that been about? Robin was too tired to try to figure out the mind of a smart, beautiful, independent woman. He splashed water from the tub on his face. He quickly did away with the rest of his clothing, just remembered to grab the soap from its dish on the sideboard, and gratefully sank into the hot water.

He could almost feel the layers of dirt and road grime coming off his skin. He dunked under the water and came up again. He wished he could stay in the bath until the water grew too cold to bear, but he didn't want to be late to supper, especially as the guest of these two formidable characters who ran Peper Harow.

Downstairs, Marion found Margaret, the laundress, and handed her Robin's shirt for washing. That task done, she headed for the kitchen, to ensure that preparations for supper were running right on schedule. She didn't know how long Robin would take in the bath, but she didn't want him coming downstairs before she was ready. As much as the man irritated her, she would be damned if he were treated to anything less than a perfect meal. Her mother had taught her the importance of being a gracious and proper hostess, and she would die before any guest in her house was found wanting.

Finally assured that the meal was in good hands, Marion quickly ran up the stairs to her room to change for supper. She splashed water on her face, combed her hair back, and put on her nice, dark blue dress. It wasn't fancy, but it was one of the better ones she had. Coming out of her room, she went to Walter's bedroom, just two doors down from hers, and escorted him to the large table in the great hall.

Walter sat down at his place at the head of the table. Already, a plan had presented itself in his mind, and he couldn't wait for his guest to come downstairs so he could put the plan into motion. Not only would it save Peper Harow, it would keep Robin Longstride around, and that, he thought to himself, was a very good thing indeed.

"Marion, more wine," he called from his seat at the table, pleased with himself. He could hear, under the hum of the usual sounds of servants preparing the food and bustling about, a man's step on the stairs. Robin Longstride pulled out the chair to Walter's right and sat down. Servants continued bringing dishes to the table as the men filled their plates. From the smell, they would be having the usual sparse fare that served as sustenance in Nottingham these days, although he knew Marion would have seen to it that what food they did set out was as fine as could be.

Marion grabbed the decanter of wine from the sideboard and the pitcher of water and approached Walter's side to serve him.

"You've taken a long road to bring this to me," Walter was saying to their guest. "I cannot decide if that makes you trustworthy," he said, sipping from his goblet.

"Or manipulative," Marion supplied, reaching Walter's side. She had had time to think, and she had come to the conclusion that Robin Longstride was nothing but trouble. The sooner they got through supper and he was on his way, the better.

"Marion, I am merely trying to gauge the quality of the man we have as our guest," Walter admonished as she poured first wine, then water into his goblet. He hated it when she watered down his wine. Did she think him a feeble old man who could not hold his drink? He decided to push her.

"Is he handsome?" he asked.

Marion knew his game right away and called him on it. "Yes," she admitted. He was quite handsome. Especially without a shirt, in firelight… "In the way that yeomen sometimes are," she continued, pouring wine into Robin's goblet for him. She met his eyes. "When they're sober." She finished pouring and made her way back to her seat across from Robin, on Walter's left.

"Entertain us with a tale of your life, sir. We don't get many visitors anymore, except tax collectors and other beggars," Walter said. Oh, yes, she had caught him in his game, and gave as good as she got. He needed to steer the direction of the conversation away from any budding hostility between the two – especially if his plan was going to succeed.

"I don't know where I'm from," Robin admitted. He stared down at his plate. "Only know where I've been." He prayed Walter wouldn't ask where he'd been. He didn't want to relive his past. Better to leave the horrors of war, the years of begging as a child to himself. Especially given Walter's apparent view of beggars.

Though blind, Walter could tell Robin didn't want to talk about the past. "So, Marion, what color are his eyes?"

Robin shifted his gaze from his plate up to Marion, daring her to look him in the eye, to answer Walter's question. Marion met his silent challenge, holding his gaze for several moments.

"I don't yet know," she said thoughtfully. Walter grinned to himself. She was uncertain of herself, which was a rare accomplishment. Additionally, with her uncertainty, she might be open to his plan. He decided it was time to make his great announcement.

"I have a proposal for you, young man," he said seriously. He needed to choose his words carefully now. "You brought me this sword, which has great meaning. If you give me your time, it is yours."

Robin was staring at Walter with rapt attention. Why would the old man give him this sword, the last memento, really, of his dead son? He didn't notice Marion, who merely glanced at Walter and back to her food. She knew the old man had some trick up his sleeve. He would reveal it when he was good and ready. And she knew, from this preamble, that what he was going to say was going to be big. He had fiercely loved Robert and been bitterly disappointed when his son had taken the sword and gone with the King. For Walter to give it away, now, to a perfect stranger…

"I could stay for a day," Robin said. His glance slid across the table to Marion. "Or more." He caught her eye roll as she dipped her fingers in the wash bowl and wiped them off. She refused to be baited by him, refused to meet his gaze. Robin grinned.

"I have a question to ask you," he said, turning back to Walter.

"And what is your question?" Walter asked.

"The words, on the hilt of the sword – what do they mean?"

This was better than Walter could have asked for. "Well, I think I have much to tell you about history – about _your_ history."

Robin sat back in chair and studied Walter. What could the old man possibly know of his history? "That's very kind," he said.

"Well, you haven't heard the other half of my proposal yet." Walter paused, savoring the moment. He knew his audience was captivated now. "I want you to stay in Nottingham and, for the time being, become my returned son… and therefore… Marion's spouse."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Marion rose angrily. "Oh, that's enough! You've had too much to drink!" She reached for Walter's goblet, which he grabbed before she could.

"Listen! Listen!" Walter said. Robin watched their exchange with great interest. "We both know that without a husband, you will lose this land when I die." Marion paused. "Do you dispute that? Hm?"

"No," she said quietly. She could see the logic of Walter's proposal, and knew in her head that it was a sound plan. Her heart, however, was telling her something else. Her quiet "no" was not only a response to Walter's question.

"No! So, if I say this is my son, he will be seen as that. And so, as your husband, huh? It is a fair contract," he continued. He knew Marion was coming around to seeing things his way. "It is not as if I expect you to have children or…" Marion glanced at Robin and felt her face grow hot at his obvious interest in what was being discussed. The image of him in firelight came once again to her mind, adding to the heat in her face.

Walter came back to his point, his attention still on Robin, unaware of the exchange between the two younger people. "No. The sword for your time, Longstride. Are you in agreement?"

Robin gazed up at Marion, where she still stood at her place on Walter's left. He gave his reply to her. "Yes."

Immensely pleased with the evening, Walter turned to his daughter-in-law. "Marion, go tell the staff that my son has arrived, and our home is now whole again." Marion stormed off, grabbing the second decanter of wine off the table so Walter couldn't drink it. "Tell them to ring the church bells in celebration!" he called as she walked off – he could hear her angry footsteps and then the door to the buttery slam shut. "And more wine, please!"

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So, the first chapter is complete! Please, if you're enjoying the story, leave a comment or review. I'm not sure how many total chapters there will be. Happy reading!


	2. 2: Tangles

**Author's Note** : This chapter starts off with a lot of my own invention, then finishes strong, sticking fairly faithfully to the movie. Enjoy!

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Soon after his announcement and their agreement, Walter had excused himself to his chamber for the evening, saying it was late and he was not as young as he had once been. Plus, Marion had hidden the wine from him again, so what was the use of sticking around? He bade his guest good night, and offered his hand to shake. "Welcome home, my son."

Left to his own thoughts, Robin had moved over to the great hearth and stared into the flames, thoughtful. He had told his men that the only way you knew a knight from any other man was by his clothing. After just a few hours in the company of a Lord and knight, he was beginning to see just how wrong he had been. There was an entire way of acting, speaking, moving, and interacting with others that was foreign to him. He had been counting on the fact that he could let the pretense of knighthood drop as soon as he delivered the sword to Nottingham, and could then be free to make his own way in the world as his own self, Robin Longstride. Now, it appeared that would not be the case after all. Though he had made his way by lying often enough – Little John had been quite close to the truth when he accused him of rigging the game of chance – this was different. This was claiming to be another man. He was essentially taking over this dead man's place. He wasn't sure the rightness of that, so soon after delivering the news of his death. He hoped that God would be understanding…

Marion, angry as she was, still had the presence of mind to tell Stephen to escort Walter back to his chamber and get him ready for the night. She went where she always did when she needed a few minutes alone – to the pantry. It was cool and dry there, and no matter if she cried, fumed, or pulled her hair, the only witnesses to her emotions were the sacks of vegetables and flour that were stored there. These days, their number was less and less. She went ahead and added that grievance to her growing list to vent about right now. She didn't want to go back out to the great hall with red eyes, so she settled for simply pacing the length of the smallish room. Her husband was dead, and though she would miss him, she was honest enough with herself to admit she hadn't really known him – not after only a week of marriage and a brief, whirlwind courtship before that. She glanced at her left hand, where she still wore the wedding band Robert had given her. She wasn't ready yet to take it off, for it had represented not only hope but also safety, these last ten years. Those hopes were now dashed, and the safety more tenuous than ever. On top of those worries she also had to worry about keeping Peper Harow running, the village boys were run off into Sherwood, Walter was getting older every day, the food shortage was getting harder to cope with every year, and now… now Walter wanted her to pretend like this stranger, Robin Longstride, was her returned husband. She prayed to God for the strength to pull that one off. God knew her troubles were great – at least, she hoped He knew, because right now, she really needed His help to bear her burdens. She squared her shoulders. Praying was one thing, but feeling sorry for herself in a near-empty pantry was dangerously close to self-pity, and she had no time for that at all. She would rise to this new challenge, just as she had risen to everything life had thrown at her so far, and she _would_ come out the winner. Thus armed for the battle, she opened the pantry door, and almost ran over Walter.

"I thought you had gone to bed. I was just… seeing to breakfast preparations," she said, trying to find a reasonable excuse for her presence in such a place.

"Marion, we all need our secret places in which to slip away for a few moments now and then," Walter said. Marion started. She didn't think anyone knew about her secret place to, as he said, slip away. "Now then. I assume you've seen the logic of my agreement with Robin Longstride?"

"Yes, I have," she said, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a rush. Like it or not, it was a sound plan. She didn't know what she would do if they lost Peper Harow and its five thousand acres of rich farmland.

"And are you in agreement also?" Walter asked. "I thought it only fair to ask you as well, since this matter concerns you as well as him."

Marion looked down, suddenly ashamed. Walter had been like a father to her since she had come here, and even more so after his son left. She should have known he wouldn't make her do anything she was uncomfortable with.

"I am, Walter, I am," she assured him.

"Excellent. I only have your best interests at heart, you know."

"I know. And I am… so thankful, Walter, truly, for everything you have done for me."

"I love you as if you were my own daughter, you know that."

"I do."

"Try to remember that tonight."

"What are you talking about?" Marion asked, glancing up at him sharply. Apparently, the old man was not done with his meddling, or his bag of tricks.

"I am on my way to bed," he said, "but wanted to remind you that your husband is now home. It must be known publically. And so you must appear as man and wife."

"Yes, and we will," Marian agreed.

"He must sleep in your chamber," Walter said.

"What?!" Marion gasped. That was going too far.

"Marion, he is your husband. You know that the walls have eyes and ears here. If you do not play the parts at all times, rumor will get out. Any thoughts anyone has about dissension between you two will cast doubt, and we cannot have that, not when such a ruse is… hm. No. There cannot be any doubt that he is Robert returned."

"Walter…"

"I'm not saying he must warm your bed, Marion. But he needs to be in your chamber, and you must call him Robert. The names are close enough that a slip-up could probably be excused, but your actions, Marion… they are what speak the loudest. Your interactions with him are what the people will pick up on, and talk about – including here at the hall. Especially here, where people know you, knew Robert, and see you two on a daily basis."

Unfortunately, Walter was still making all too much sense. She bowed her head. "Of course, Walter. I'll do my best."

"I know you will, my girl, you always have," Walter said. He kissed her brow. "Good night, my dear. I will see you and Robert in the morning for breakfast."

"Yes. Good night, Walter."

His staff in hand, he walked away grinning. When he was a length down the corridor, he began calling for Stephen to help him upstairs. She shook her head. The wily old fox…

Marion made her way back to the great hall. She didn't want her… husband… to wander about by himself. Just because she was happy to make Walter happy, it didn't mean she was happy about having to share her chamber. That thought sobered her quickly and brought a frown to her face. Walter had just said everyone needed places to slip away to. Her chamber was just such a place, and now he expected her to give it up and share it with a stranger. Her frown deepened.

With these thoughts spinning through her mind, she stormed into the great hall. Spotting a few maids still at work in the buttery, she slammed the door shut. She didn't need an audience for the talk she was about to have with her new 'husband.'

She spotted Longstride standing in front of the hearth. She entered the large room with purposeful strides. The dogs lying about pricked their ears at the approach of their mistress, and seemed to pick up on her stormy mood. Alerted to another's presence by the dogs, Robin turned and saw Marion coming toward him. He slid the sword, whose words he had once again been studying in vain, back into its scabbard. Marion stopped a couple of paces away from him. He turned to give her his full attention. She folded her hands primly in front of her.

"It seems we are to share my chamber," she said. Her tone of voice just dared him to make some sort of comment to her statement. She straightened her posture even further. "A ruse to convince the servants."

Robin was a little shocked by her bold declaration, but in all honesty, he expected nothing less from the wily old man. To cover his moment of shock, he made his way over to the chair set in front of the fire, the sword still in hand. "Well," he said. He set the sword to lean against the side of the table nearby. "If the aim is deception…" he sat down, stretching his long legs out insolently, leaning back against the seat like a lazy lord, "should you not be addressing me as 'my husband' or 'my dear'?" He smirked up at her from his position. She may have the upper hand, this being her home, but he would not be pushed over. Not even by smart, beautiful women.

Marion was almost speechless, gaping at his audacity. "Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped, finding her voice again quickly. She refused to be in the irritating man's presence a moment longer. The way he sat in Robert's chair, like he owned the place… Expecting her to call him 'husband' or 'dear'… she had some pride!

She paused beside the table when she didn't hear footsteps following her lead. She turned back to see Robin still sprawled in the chair at the hearth. "Well, are you coming or not?" she said impatiently, hand on one hip. She didn't have all night! She was tired!

Robin slowly rolled his head to look at her squarely. He studied her for a moment, from the ramrod straight posture to the insolent hand on her hip to the flush in her cheeks. "Ask me nicely."

He could see the effect his words had on her immediately. She hated the confinement of having to play at being his submissive wife, and probably hated him, as well. For now, Robin would settle for pricking her temper just to see that fire in her, the sparkle in her eyes and the bright spots of color in her cheeks. Hopefully, in time, he could inspire such a reaction in her for other reasons… but he knew she was angry, she was hurting, she was being imposed upon… and if hating him helped her get over it, well then. He was a patient man. He could wait. Looking at her now, her long, dark hair swirling about her and her breathing harsh, he decided he would wait for her. He would wait as long as it took for her to come around to one day liking him, even just a little, because he sure as hell liked her – and not just a little.

Marion glared at him, her gaze calculating. What game was he playing at? Ask him nicely indeed. But he didn't appear to be trying to lord anything over her head. He seemed almost to be… not flirting with her. No, definitely not flirting. She was too tired for games right now. She didn't want to think about him, about how confusing he was, didn't want to figure out his puzzle right now. Instead, she raised her chin a fraction and stepped as proudly ladylike as she could out to where he could see her figure fully. She turned to face him.

"Please, dear husband, will you share my chamber?" she managed to choke out without stumbling or laughing over her words. She even threw in a mocking little curtsy, just to show him… what? That she knew how? That she could play his game? That she could be as proper as any court lady? She gave him a good frown then turned quickly and started up the stairs. Let him find his own way. She whistled for the dogs to come with her, and they got up from their warm places by the fire, barking, still slightly agitated by her apparent anger but wanting to be by their mistress's side.

Robin followed her dramatic exit and ascent to the second floor of the hall with his eyes. She was quite a vision when riled. He hadn't meant to offend her further, or cause her greater stress. What he wanted was hard to put into words. He admired her immensely for the apparently excellent job she had done keeping Peper Harow running without the aid of a husband. She had the manner and bearing of a noble lady, and yet, when he had first met her, she had been bent over, picking out the hoof of a huge draft horse, her hair bound up in a peasant's wrap. She was a big tangle of contradictions is what she was, he decided. An intriguing, beguiling, and enticing tangle, but a tangle nonetheless, and tonight he was too tired for tangles.

Speaking of tangles, he glanced at the sword he had leant against the table and reached out for it, bringing the words on the hilt into the firelight. 'Until lambs become lions' it said. He didn't know what that was supposed to mean. Marion had the fierce spirit of a lion, and though she was no lamb, he had seen gentleness in her, too, especially when it came to Walter. He hoped one day she would show him the same gentleness… tangles. They were best left for daylight.

With a groan Robin stood up and stretched. He had better go upstairs and find Marion's room. If he was Robert, he couldn't very well ask a servant where his own bedroom was.

After checking the first two bedrooms and finding them empty, he came to one bathed in gold by flickering firelight. His eyes immediately turned to the large bed covered in a white quilt, which had not yet been turned down for the night. Looking at the bed was making him think about things he could not begin to hope for and he pulled his gaze away to his right.

Marion stood before the large hearth there. When his eyes found her instead of her bed, she threw the last blanket on the floor at the makeshift bed she had arranged for him there on the warm flagstones. She fondled the ear of her favorite hound, a big grey wolfhound and said, "Here," gesturing to the bed of blankets.

She moved to the doorway in the wall of curtains she had hastily strung across her room while waiting for Robin to follow her upstairs. She'd been glad he had tarried, knowing how awkward it would have been to so obviously set up a wall between them, even if that wall was made of spare bedsheets. The hound stayed at her side as she paused. Robin turned from studying his new bed to look back at her, waiting for what further instructions she had for him.

"I sleep with a dagger," she said proudly. "If you so much as move to touch me, I will sever your manhood. You understand?"

Well, the feisty woman was full of surprises, wasn't she. The hound at her side nuzzled his hand, the cold wet nose reminding him she was waiting for his response.

"Thanks for the warning," he drawled.

She slammed the curtains closed, right there in his face. He smiled. He could take a hint. He shuffled over to the bed of blankets and heaved himself down, stretching out his full length. One benefit of being on the floor was he had all the leg room he wanted.

"Hello, dogs," he said. The hound that had followed Marion laid down beside him, exposing its belly submissively. Even if their mistress didn't care for him, the dogs at least thought he was alright. Animals were generally very good judges of men's characters, he had found. Perhaps Marion would accept him when she saw her dogs accepting him. He rubbed a hand over his face. That was fanciful thinking. He glanced over at the wall of bedsheets and immediately wished he hadn't.

The sheets were white, and in the light of the candles Marion had lit on her side, they had become fairly sheer. From his position on the floor, he watched as Marion took off several layers of clothing. He wondered idly why women's clothing put the laces in front but left men dependent on others to do theirs in the back. That seemed entirely backwards logic to him.

She really was beautiful. Her slim figure seemed almost to dance as she moved gracefully around her room, carefully setting her clothes in their proper places, ready to pick up the next morning. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulder like a waterfall, and he longed to run his fingers through it. Knowing there was only danger where his thoughts were heading, Robin turned away, onto his back. The hound at his side whined softly, and he stroked its belly again, and its tail thumped against the flagstones. With a sigh, Robin tossed in his nest of blankets a little, trying to find a position that was at least somewhat comfortable, and closed his eyes. Who knew what surprises tomorrow had in store for him. Whatever they turned out to be, he had no doubt he'd need all the sleep and rest he could get in order to face them head-on.

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As always, my lovely readers, feedback is the breakfast of champion writers everywhere - drop a comment or review! Thanks!


	3. 3: A Morning Ride

**Author's Note** : Thank you for sticking with this story, awesome readers! Well, this chapter is one of my personal favorites. It stays with the Director's Cut version of the film, so if the scene at the end with the ram and the Sheriff is unfamiliar, fret not, but be assured that it is, in fact, canon. The only part I made up is as they leave that scene and transition to the next chapter. Well! Commence with the reading!

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Marion rose from bed before the sun had even peaked fully over the horizon. She hurried to get dressed, before Robin woke up and could catch her in her shift, or with her hair in disarray from sleep, although, when they had met in the courtyard, her hair had been less than tidily piled into a serf's wrap atop her head… why was she even worried about such an inconsequential thing? She pulled on her favorite riding habit and arranged her hair in her favorite style. Today was going to be for her, she decided. Her husband was dead, her home in danger from tax collectors and grain thieves, and now she was being forced to act like this total stranger was her husband. She hadn't even been given time to grieve properly for Robert. No one could even admit that he was dead.

Thinking about her late husband reminded her of her current 'husband' and the fact that he would need clothes and a wash stand when he awoke. Muttering softly to herself, she pulled out some of Robert's old clothes from the chest where she had stored them so long ago and laid out a full outfit on the chair that was by Robin's feet. She glanced at his face, but he was sleeping soundly, snoring ever so slightly. She didn't want to make a fuss, so she simply moved the bowl and pitcher she had used herself to a small table next to the chair for his use. She checked, and the pitcher was still half full. It would suit him fine.

Before leaving her room, she glanced at Robin again. He looked peaceful in his sleep, and unguarded. In sleep there were no lies, no deceptions, no one to fool. He was simply laying there, one hand resting on the side of her favorite hound. She shook her head and made her way downstairs.

Robin woke suddenly and looked about him, unsure for a moment where he was. The warm, furry belly of the hound beside him and the hard stones beneath him quickly reminded him where he was – Marion's bedroom. More accurately, Marion's floor, he thought, wincing as he levered himself first to a sitting position and then to standing with a groan. He stretched his arms above his head and grimaced at the stiffness he felt. Though not old, he was also no longer a youth.

Glancing around his makeshift bedchamber, he spied a small stand with a bowl and pitcher on it. Marion must have arranged it, either last night before he had followed her up or this morning before he woke. Either way, he was grateful to splash some water on his face. Wiping the water away with the small cloth that had been provided, he spied a fresh set of men's clothes laid out on a chair. He set the cloth down and picked up the shirt. It was finer than anything he had ever owned. He felt briefly guilty again for so thoroughly taking over the other man's life and identity from him. But decisions had been made, and these were desperate, dangerous times. He hoped Robert understood. He put on the shirt, pants, and other items laid out, but put his own boots back on and made his way downstairs.

"I hear a man's steps," Walter called out from his customary place at the table. "Good morning, my son."

Robin approached the other end of the table. Though the man couldn't see him, he nodded, "Morning, Walter." Robin looked at the table and saw the sword with its infuriatingly puzzling message on the hilt lying in its scabbard.

"Oh ho, Father," Walter admonished him, grinning devilishly.

"Father," Robin corrected himself with a rueful grin. He liked the old man, for all his clever plans and secretive hints about the past.

Marion, hearing their morning exchange, glanced at the great hall from the buttery, where she had taken her own light breakfast. She didn't like to begin her work day on an overly full stomach, and was accustomed to taking her morning meal there, with the servants. She moved to the buttery doorway to better eavesdrop on the men's conversation.

"So what is it that you know of my history?" Robin asked, leaning against the table eagerly.

"Patience," Walter counseled. "You must show yourself today. Wear your sword," he said, gesturing vaguely with a piece of buttered bread at the sword on the table in front of Robin. Robin looked down, glad Walter couldn't see the disappointment he was feeling at the delay.

"Marion," Walter called.

"I'm here, Walter," she replied, stepping out from the buttery doorway to the edge of the great hall. She refused to even look at Robin, afraid where her thoughts may lead, seeing him dressed so finely in Robert's clothes, and wondering what tricks Walter had up his sleeve for today.

At her response, Robin turned quickly and took in her queenly appearance. She was dressed finely, in a brown riding habit, complete with gloves and a riding crop she was twisting in her hands.

"Reacquaint your husband with his village," Walter instructed, "and his people."

Marion couldn't hide her surprise. So, she would get to go for her ride after all. And, as she glanced at Robin, noted that he in fact looked rather dashing in the dark blue overcoat she had pulled out for him. "I'll see to the horses," she said, and left. Robin turned back to Walter.

"I feel invigorated," the older man said. "I woke this morning with a tumescent glow." Robin shook his head, grinning at the old man's announcement. "Eighty-four. A miracle!"

"I've always wondered at the private conversations of men," Marion said drily, reappearing in the doorway. Robin turned to her again. "Husband," she called wearily.

Robin grabbed the sword and scabbard from the table and followed her, turning in time to catch her world-weary sigh and eye roll. Grinning, he followed her out to the stable.

The stable master had prepared his horse for him. He figured, what with the King dead and no one else to claim the beast, he could rightfully call the magnificent animal his. Next to his horse was a dark brown-black mare, presumably Marion's steed. Before he could move to assist her, a stable boy was already giving Marion a leg-up into her saddle. Robin noted the easy way she sat her mount and knew she was a capable horse-woman. He thanked the stable boy holding his horse and mounted swiftly. Marion took the lead, and they headed out at a leisurely trot towards the fields.

They rode in silence, simply enjoying the pleasure ride and the peaceful day. It was still early, but already the serfs were about their daily tasks, be it tending the fields, hawking their wares, or delivering carts laden with packages, as one man was doing, his donkey braying harshly. Marion guided her horse faster and turned down the hedgerow, leaving Robin to keep up or be left behind. She pulled up at the end of the row, where it joined the main path.

"This is rich country," Robin said as they slowed to a walk to avoid running over people. "Where's your cattle, your sheep?" he asked, noting a distinct lack of noises and smells he had thought he would have encountered by now. He looked around, just to be sure he wasn't just not seeing them, but no, they weren't around. Marion stopped her horse and turned to him.

"Sold, eaten, stolen, traded," she rattled off. "We've had seven lean years." Her tone implied he should have guessed their plight. "Our meat now is rabbit… or wild pig, on a lucky day." She eased her horse forward once the path was clear enough for both their horses to move forward again. They were so close, her right leg rubbed against his left as they rode.

"And deer?" asked Robin. As the path widened, the horses drifted apart to a more comfortable distance.

"If you're willing to risk your neck to the King's Executioner," Marion said. Again, her tone implied he should have known this fact. "Every deer in the land belongs to His Majesty."

"These things are God's gifts first, before the King's possessions," Robin said, frowning. England had indeed changed in the ten years he had been away. "If it's illegal for a man to fend for himself, how then can he be a man in his own right?" Marion found herself in complete agreement.

"Welcome home, sir," one of the serf women said, looking up at them as they rode past and affecting an attempt at a curtsy.

"Sir Robert," the man behind her said in greeting.

"Good morning, Joseph. Emma," Marion replied easily as they continued on. Robin, not knowing the people and still feeling residual guilt for taking another man's place, said nothing. He was also impressed that Marion knew the two peasants by name, though as soon as he had the thought, it also occurred to him that Marion was the sort of woman who knew every one of her people by name, trade, and family, and could hold a unique conversation with any of them.

They were riding through the main thoroughfare of Nottingham now, the banging of the blacksmith's hammer and smell of the tannery surrounding them, as well as tons of people milling about, going about their daily routines.

"Sir Walter is our Lord, and you are Robert returned," Marion reminded Robin curtly. "You should act so."

"Sir Robert! You remember me – I'm Tom Chamberlain, pig farmer," said one serf as they approached. Robin and Marion paused for a moment beside the dirty older man squinting up at them.

"You don't look a day older, Tom," Robin replied with a familiar, easy grin for the man. Before he and Marion had taken more than half a dozen steps, a woman approached them. She appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties.

"Sir Robert," she said, putting her hand out as if to rest it on Robin's thigh imploringly. However, she seemed to remember that he was the Lord, and she a serf with dirt on her hands, and she pulled her hand back. "When will our young lads come back to us?" she asked desperately. "Will you find my Jamie, tell him to come home?"

The woman's heartfelt plea shook him, and he could only nod his head and nudge his horse onward again. What had she meant? Were the boys taken? Run off to be Crusaders?

Marion, seeing his obvious discomfit over the exchange, nudged her horse close beside Robin's and explained in a low voice, "With no work and little food, the village boys have gone."

"To be soldiers?" he asked.  
"Poachers," Marion corrected wryly.

They were now approaching the outskirts of the town proper. Robin spied his friends leaning over a water trough. They looked a little worse for the wear this morning and he could only wonder at the mischief they had gotten into the night before, while he was up at the keep. While Marion was preoccupied saying hello to another serf, Robin kicked his horse forward to try to get a word in with his men before introducing her, or before they could ruin his pretense.

"Still here then?" he said in greeting. Little John grinned, while Allan A'Dayle looked like he was about to be sick over the side of the trough. Robin glanced over his shoulder and saw Marion approaching quickly. He leaned down from his saddle and muttered, "For the time being, refer to me as Sir Robert. I'll explain later." That was all he managed to say before Marion showed up. With her arrival, the men straightened, their eyes wide and staring at the beautiful woman he was with, who had such a queenly presence about her. Allan seemed to overcome his illness and stood at her approach.

"My, ah, men-at-arms," Robin explained when Marion looked at him questioningly. She had assumed they arrived with him, as she didn't recognize them as Nottingham residents and Robin had actively sought them out, unlike anyone else they had encountered this morning. She noted that Robin seemed almost embarrassed to be introducing her to them. "This is about as courtly as they get," he said by way of explanation for their rough appearance. Allan was still pale, Will was eating porridge out of a wooden bowl, and Little John was dripping water back into the trough. All three were stripped bare from the waist up. Marion tried to hide her smile.

"Allan A'Dayle," Robin said, nodding to indicate the man on the end. Allan paled further, as if realizing he was in the presence of a noble lady and looking the way he did. "Will Scarlet," Robin said, moving down the line. Will at least had the manners to put his bowl down. "And Little John," John nodded his greeting to Robin's companion. "Lady Marion," Robin finished grimly. The men, rough as they were, tried to affect some courtly bows. Marion appreciated their efforts and found them somewhat comical and seemingly good-hearted. Surely Robin wasn't the sort of man to be friends with unprincipled or immoral men. She smiled at them.

Behind the men a door creaked open. Marion glanced up in time to see Sarah, a tall, strong woman, peeking out the door. Her hair was wild and the lacings on her dress crooked. Sarah paled upon seeing the lady of the manor on her doorstep at this hour of the morning, with her appearance what it was, and she tried to melt back into the hut doorway in embarrassment. Marion glanced at Robin. Across the way, two more girls Marion recognized from the village appeared in another doorway, dresses hanging provocatively off their shoulders. When they saw Marion and Sir Robert, they giggled and ran back inside as well. Realizing the situation was souring fast, Robin flushed.

Marion turned her attention back to Robin's 'men-at-arms,' who were unaware of the girls' appearances and quick disappearances. "I trust you had an historic evening," she said, the censure clear in her voice.

Missing her judgment completely, Little John grinned. "For sure," he said, quite pleased with himself and with the way his evening had gone. Marion looked incredulously at Robin, rolled her eyes, and turned her mount away from the three barbarians.

Robin tried to grin at her, to soften the rough edges of his friends. He realized he wanted her to like them, to like him. She was gone already. He glared at Little John, who was almost leering at him now. "Lady Marion Loxley," he said seriously. "My wife." Damn it all, he had wanted to impress the woman, not… this.

A beat of stunned silence followed his remark. "Well-played," Will said, smirking into his porridge. "A bit… a bit rash, but well-played nonetheless." Clearly Will, at least, would support him.

"Right you are, Robin," Little John said, raising his fist to congratulate Robin on his apparent conquest as well. Allan still seemed too dazed by his evening to do more than follow along silently.

Robin gritted his teeth. He raised his eyebrows at his friends. "Sir Robert," he reminded them. God, everything hinged on the people of Nottingham accepting him as Sir Robert returned, and wouldn't it be just like his friends to muck that up for him – by accident, of course.

"Sir Robert." They started making overdone, flourishing, mocking bows to him.

"Sir."

"Sir."

"Sir Bob."

"Sir Robert." Oh, they would have an absolute field day, taking the mickey out of him for this one. He straightened in his saddle to ride after Marion. Good thing he didn't take himself too seriously. He hoped, in time, he would win Marion back over. Their morning had been going so well.

They cantered out of the town, heading for the church Robin and his men had stopped at on their way into town the day before.

"Friar," a man in a brown robe Robin didn't recognized indicated his and Marion's presence to Friar Tuck with his mug, who turned from his work overseeing men loading bags of grain into a cart to greet them. Marion's eyes followed the wagon full of seed corn hungrily.

"Ah, Marion. Good news travels from Peper Harow this morning." He turned to Robin. "Sir Robert. You should have made yourself known when we met in the field. Welcome home."

He hated lying to the priest. He seemed a good man. "Yes, I should have; forgive me, friar," Robin acknowledged, inclining his head to the good friar. He jerked his chin at the second cart that had been pulled up and was being quickly loaded with more grain sacks. "What happens here?"

"We're moving the Church's grain to York," Friar Tuck said heavily. "Politics out of London, I hear." He seemed unhappy with his task.

Unable to keep silent any longer, Marion burst out, "This is our grain – it belongs in this soil!"

The Friar tried to soothe her anger. "Lady Marion, I but follow the orders of my superiors and abide by their saying and rule." Robin glanced thoughtfully between Marion and the friar. There might just be a way to turn this situation to his favor, if he handled it carefully.

Marion gave one last fierce glare to the driver of the cart, who was tipping his mug back and watching the grain sacks being loaded greedily. Disgusted, Marion turned her horse and rode away.

Robin urged his horse a few steps closer to Friar Tuck and leaned in close. "Does His Holiness know about your wealth of honey?" he asked, his voice pitched low, for Tuck's ears only.

The friar was caught and he knew it. He glanced behind him to ensure their conversation wasn't being listened in upon and turned back to Sir Robert. "There are… wolves in York, Sir Robert – voracious wolves," he said, his voice matching Robin's. Then, with more force, "The bees are my family. I'm a procreator by design," his voice was still pitched low, and Robin glanced up to make sure the workers were not listening to what Tuck was telling him. "I'm not a 'churchy' friar – never was," Tuck explained. "My bees give life; they _are_ my life, Sir Robert."

Robin remained unmoved by the friar's impassioned speech. "Should not the Bishop be told, so the clergy can spread Nottingham honey on Nottingham bread?" he countered.

Friar Tuck looked up at him thoughtfully for a moment. "What if the grain were not to reach York?" he proposed.

Robin leaned down even further, pleased where their conversation was going but not wanting to give that away to the friar. "Then the bees need to be spoken of."

Friar Tuck gave Robin a slightly sneaky half-grin. They were both clever men. Tuck was sure they would be able to reach a… alternative solution to the problem that would suit all parties. And Sir Robert seemed a fair man, who cared deeply for his people – the friar couldn't fault him for that. He watched as Robert turned to catch up with his Lady and they rode off again. The men behind him, sent from York, continued loading grain sacks into the cart.

They rode around the edge of town and out into the fields again. Marion wished to stretch her legs a bit – it had been a long time since she had ridden for so long – and so they both dismounted and led their mounts. They walked in companionable silence for a spell before Robin deemed it safe to make small talk, eventually working up to asking her how she had come to Nottingham and to marry Sir Robert Loxley.

"I was an old maid when Robert courted me," she began her tale. "I was a daughter of a respectable widow with a thimbleful of noble blood. We were wed, and then a week later he left to join a ship for France and the Holy Lands. And that was my married life," she concluded, a hint of bitterness or regret coloring her voice, Robin couldn't tell which. "To a man I… hardly knew." They approached a small patch of grass, which Robin paused at to let his horse crop a few mouthfuls.

Responding to the sadness in her voice, he tried to offer her comfort in form of praise of her late husband. "A good knight."

"Short, but sweet," she responded wistfully. Robin looked down, embarrassed at her misunderstanding of his words and their implication.

"I mean – he was a good knight, a good knight-at-arms, a soldier," he corrected her gently.

It didn't help. Marion was still mortified at her blunder and tried to cover her mistake, the double entendre dawning on her, by talking quickly. "Oh! Yes, my knight-in-arms, even so. And I in his." She had to get away from him. She moved around to the far side of her horse and gathered herself, ready to vault onto her horse's back. She couldn't believe she had just made such a proper fool of herself!

In her agitated state, she made her mount nervous, and the mare sidestepped away from her mistress uncertainly while Marion muttered to herself, berating herself for her foolishness. Seeing where this was going, Robin dropped the reins – his horse was well-trained to remain still – and went around to assist Marion. He grabbed the mare's reins with a steady hand, and the horse immediately calmed and stood still once again. He then bent down and linked his hands together, forming a cup for Marion to step into so he could lift her up to the horse's saddle. Surprised by this gentlemanly gesture, she set her foot in the cup of his hands and jumped as he lifted, settling herself on her mount. He looked up at her and then moved closer to the horse's side. He grabbed her foot and guided it gently into her stirrup. She looked down at him, uncertain where this sudden quiet generosity was coming from. Not liking the feeling of nervousness he was causing her to feel, she urged her horse forward quickly, not waiting for him to remount his own horse and leaving him to catch up.

Marion heard the drumming beat of his horse's hooves on the earth behind her, and felt comfortable urging her horse even faster. She didn't want to look at him right now. She had not been in control of their exchange, and that was a worry. She was the Lady here, and this was her home. He was the outsider, the intruder. She could not let such a power shift happen again.

They heard splashing coming from the trail up ahead. She knew there was a dangerous bog there, with an uncertain, quicksand-like shore and bottom. Hoping no one was in peril, she rode into the clearing and saw a small ram caught in the mire, and an old shepherd vainly trying to through a looped length of rope over its head from the safety of the bog's edge. Several people were gathered, watching, occasionally calling out unhelpful suggestions and even less helpful opinions and encouragements. Riding up, Marion quickly assessed the situation and swung off her horse.

"Stop! You'll break its neck," she said. One of the gathered serfs moved forward to hold her horse's reins for her. She quickly gathered her hair and tucked it down the back of her riding habit. She gathered up her skirts, took the short staff one of the other serfs offered her, and started walking carefully forward into the bog, using the staff to test the ground ahead of her for its firmness before trusting her weight to a new patch of ground. She kept her eyes mostly on the tricky ground, and listened for the ram's pitiful bleats to ensure she was heading in the right direction.

Robin watched the scene unfolding incredulously. He admired her for jumping right in to help her people out, and not being afraid of getting dirty, but he had worked as a shepherd often enough as a young boy to know this would never work. "Marion," he said. She didn't hear him and kept trying to make forward progress. He shook his head and got off his horse. He nodded to the serf who moved forward to hold the reins, and made quick work of the lacings holding his fine overcoat together. He pulled the garment off and slung it across his saddle, where it would stay clean.

From the bog he heard a surprised gasp and a rather loud splash. Sure enough, Marion had lost her footing and fallen into the bog. "I'm alright," she assured her audience, raising one hand in the air to try to regain her balance and wave away their concern for her.

Well, this was an embarrassing situation if she'd ever been in one. She tried to stand back up, but the quicksand-like bottom had caught her. "I can't move me legs," she muttered to herself. Well, shit. Now someone was going to have to rescue her as well as the ram. Shit. "I can't move me legs," she said louder, turning back to shore. She saw Robin had taken off her husband's overcoat and was settling the looped end of the shepherd's rope crosswise over one shoulder. He was coming for her! "Thank you," she said, smiling at Robin as he entered the bog water.

Robin glanced at Marion and deemed her safe enough for the meantime. As for the small ram, who knew how long it had been trapped in the mucky water. Robin moved purposefully past where Marion was stuck fast, making straight for the ram.

"My Lord?" she asked, puzzled. She was right here.

It became quite apparent that he was going for the ram first. With a few purposeful, strong strides against the muddy bottom, Robin reached the ram. He grasped its horn and pulled it gently forward, just enough that he could get both his arms around the pitiful creature. When it felt its legs come free, it tried to kick out, to struggle to complete freedom. Marion ducked out of the way of the muddy water that was sent flying. Robin pivoted with the ram cradled against his chest and saw that the bank was firm right behind them. With one big effort, he lurched forward, allowing the ram to land on its feet, and trusting its shepherd would oversee its care from then on. He turned back to his 'wife.'

"Oh, is it my turn now?" she asked sarcastically. She was some damsel in distress, Robin thought to himself. He glanced at her eyes, asking her silent permission to touch her, to pick her up. She nodded slightly, and he bent down in the water, his right arm going across her shoulder blades, his left arm reaching for the backs of her knees. She put her arms around him as he found her legs and he lifted. Her boots made a horrible squelching noise as the mud was forced to release her by the strength in Robin's arms as he lifted. Free of the clinging mud, Robin turned to deposit her on the same patch of firm bank he had set the ram on a minute ago. Marion was much bigger than the ram, and they were awkward, but she managed to roll onto her stomach on the firm ground. She turned and gave her rescuer a curt, if heartfelt, "Thank you."

Marion stood up to give Robin room to also clamber out of the murky water and was immediately confronted with the sight of the last person she wanted to see on any given day – the Sheriff of Nottingham, in all his smarmy glory. Even now, his gaze was directed at her lower half, and she hastened to pull the wet material of her skirts away from her legs and cover them completely.

"Nicely done, sir," the Sheriff chortled from the back of his horse. Robin was still finding his footing behind Marion. "To see Lady Marion Loxley's legs… beyond my wildest hopes this morning." Marion heard Robin slog up next to her in his own wet, clinging clothes, heard him trying to shake the material away from his skin, but she refused to take her eyes off the snake that was their Sheriff.

The Sheriff laughed at his own wit and Marion simply blinked rapidly, unable to fathom how he could sit there and watch the two of them struggle to help those in need, while he simply sat there on his fine black steed, cracking inappropriate jokes at the Lady of the manor's expense and being generally a lazy pain in everyone's ass. A sudden thought occurred to Marion and she grinned, reaching out for Robin's arm as he made to walk past her, presumably back to his horse. She grabbed his arm and held tight, as if they were the perfect, happily married couple.

"I don't believe you know my husband" – Robin glanced wildly at her at that bold claim – "Sir Robert," she continued unfazed, staring the Sheriff down. She could see it in his eyes – he remembered their exchange in the field, where she had threatened to tell her husband of the liberties he had taken with her and the threats he'd made against her. "Allow me to introduce the Sheriff of Nottingham."

The grip Marion had on his arm was almost painful. He could tell, from the malice in her voice and his own observations of the man's character, that he was an unpleasant sort of man, this Sheriff. Robin decided to take an immediate dislike to the man.

"Welcome home, Sir Robert," the Sheriff said formally, nodding to him. Robin walked forward, Marion still clinging to his arm. The Sheriff's next words brought him up short. "You make your mark quickly by rescuing the King's ram from drowning." They had reached Robin's horse and Marion let go of her 'husband.'

"What's this?" she asked, confused. That ram belonged to its shepherd, not the King.

"Well, it's mine in coin. I have the right to take in goods or livestock," the Sheriff explained. Marion saw red but Robin spoke up before she could respond.

"If it's God's will," he said calmly. He wiped his hands together to get some of the muck and sand off, then turned to his saddle bag and extracted a coin, which he flipped off his thumb to the rude man. "Here's a ram's worth of tax for the Exchequer. Your insolence to Lady Marion," Robin paused, making sure he had the Sheriff's full attention, "I'll consider a debt between us," he growled.

The Sheriff could only stare down at the odd-looking couple, dumbfounded. Sir Robert's arm had gone around his wife to escort her to her mount. As a parting shot, Marion glanced up at the Sheriff and smirked. Oh, was she pleased with the way Robin had risen to the challenge and spoken to the horrid Sheriff. She couldn't have coached him to say anything better, even if she had a week to come up with the words. Yes, she was mighty, mighty pleased indeed.

There was nothing for it – their saddles were going to get bog water and sand all over them. They were simply too far from Peper Harow to walk, especially with the very real threat of chafing from their wet clothes. Robin once again knelt down to boost her to her saddle before mounting his own steed. This time, she waited for him and they rode back to the keep at a weary walk together.

As they rode, she glanced over at Robin. He was covered in muck and sand, ruining his good new clothes, he had had to rescue her, and the ram, and face the awful Sheriff, and he had done all of it with grace, manners, and a sharp wit. "Thank you, for back there," Marion said.

Robin glanced over and gave Marion a tired smile. "So that's our esteemed Sheriff," he mused.

"He is a vile man," Marion spat. "He is small and petty and incompetent, yet power-hungry. And, unfortunately, he plays by the rules of the right corrupt politicians, who give him the power he seeks, though many are better-suited to the position."

"I'm sorry for the comments he made at your expense."

"Don't be ridiculous! You have nothing to apologize for! His lowbrow comments only prove his own repulsive character."

"In truth," Robin agreed. He glanced over at her and they shared a smile at the utter ridiculousness they were riding away from. Marion shook her head and laughed outright. Aye, she hated the vile Sheriff, but she and Robin had certainly given him something to think about, the next time he tried to mess with them! She had a wonderful laugh, Robin thought, and he allowed himself to chuckle. He was thoroughly worn out by their morning's grand adventure… and misadventure. But it had been extremely informational for him. He had learned a lot not just about his Lady and his new home, but about the relationships and inner workings that ran Nottingham, and he was fascinated. In fact, several plans were already starting to take root in his mind, plans that concerned not only how he would settle that debt with the Sheriff, but also how to fix the problem of the stolen seed grain… which would in turn resolve the issue of Tuck and his bees… and would put his lazy excuse for men to work…

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Another chapter down! Thanks for continuing to read (and, hopefully, continuing to leave your comments and reviews - I do read all of them!).


	4. 4: Men of the Hood

**Author's Note** : Hey hey hey! Thanks for keeping up with the story! I also am quite proud of this chapter. I love Robin and the boys being boys - plus, we get to find out how they got their nickname! Also, Robin's and Marion's relationship takes a significant turn for the fluffier, so, enjoy!

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That evening after supper, Robin slipped away to the church. As he approached the squat building, he noticed the ample figure of the friar moving about inside, which was lit by candles. Robin remembered the water trough from that morning and paused. Ah, yes, there was a bucket. He picked it up and filled it, then entered the church. Friar Tuck was taste testing his latest batch of brew. Robin set his bucket of ice cold water down on a nearby stool.

"Mead and grain alcohol?" Tuck asked, offering Robin a cup of his own to sample.

Robin accepted the cup. "I thought as much." He and the friar tipped their small wooden cups to each other in salute and drank.

"There's something that we need to do," Robin said, studying his empty cup. His eyes met Tuck's over the rim of the cup.

"At your service," Tuck replied. They tipped their cups once more and threw back the last dregs. Both men set their cups down on the table where Tuck had set up his brewing apparatus. Robin moved to pick up the bucket he had set down earlier. Tuck watched, curious as to what the other man was going to do.

With a happy grin, Robin picked up the bucket by the handle, grabbed the bottom of it as well, and unceremoniously tossed the icy water onto the sleeping forms of his three best friends. They came awake with shouts, sitting up and complaining loudly.

"All right, lads, should've left while you had the chance," Robin said easily, setting the now-empty bucket down. "Something's afoot. Off we go." He yanked the church door open and headed out into the night, Tuck following right behind him, laughing quietly to himself. Behind him, the boys groaned and got up. They supposed they had earned that one, for this morning.

Outside, Robin was putting on a hood he had found in the chest of Robert's clothes that Marion had showed him that afternoon. It was perfect for what he wanted – the hood was deep and cast his face completely in shadow, and it was short enough that it left his arms free to maneuver his bow and reach the arrows in his quiver, which he had already slung over his back.

"How do I look, lads?" he asked, his costume complete.

"Like the thief you are," Little John said, studying him.

"Like… like a spook," Will added, shivering slightly.

"Aye… Robin of the Hood, the most fearsome thief to ever prowl the streets of Nottingham," Allan began composing a new story to tell there on the spot.

"Enough. Come on now. We don't want to miss the grain," Robin said. He set off down the lane leading out of town toward York. "Grab your gear," he tossed over his shoulder. Tuck and the lads armed themselves quickly and ran after him.

It was just like their escape from France through the woods, only they were on English soil now and it was pitch black outside. Robin set a quick pace so as to catch up to the two grain carts that had left earlier that evening. As they jogged, Tuck huffing along with them as best he could, he explained his plan.

They caught up to the wagon easily, as it wasn't moving with any sense of haste. After all, no one in his right mind would rob from wagons of the Church, and even if someone tried, there were several mounted knights riding along as guards.

Robin counted nine men accompanying the train: two drivers per cart, two in back of each cart, and the friar who had been overseeing the loading that morning, once again swigging from a wooden mug, who sat on the driver's bench of the first wagon. Robin nodded silently, indicating to the men that they should get going. They needed to be ahead of the train in order to set their ambush.

Ten minutes of jogging brought them to the perfect spot. It was just past a bend in the trail, so the wagons wouldn't see them until the last minute. There were also some very stout, low hanging tree branches over the trail that Little John could hide in. He was, surprisingly, the best of them at climbing trees, his size hiding the fact he was actually extremely agile.

Tuck, armed with a crossbow in each hand, and Will and Allan, with their bows at the ready, hid to either side of the trail in the low brush, making sure to stay perfectly still. Robin strung his bow and took out two arrows, one nocked and the other in his hand, rapid-fire-ready in case the guards hired to accompany the wagons made any foolish moves. He pulled the hood over his face, crouched down in the middle of the path, and set in to wait.

They didn't have to wait long. The wagons arrived in a chorus of jangling harness, heavy hoofs beating the solid earth, and the creaking of the wagons. One of the horses whinnied.

"Stop! Stop the horses!" the first driver called, pulling up his team.

The overseer stood up. "You there! Move aside!" he yelled impatiently. "We're on Church business!"

Robin stayed still. "None shall pass – unless they can answer the riddle," he replied.

The overseer tried to play Robin off to his underlings. "Moon mad," he called to them, laughing for their benefit and to make himself feel a little braver. The moon was throwing spooky shadows across the hooded figure crouched down in the path. "And what is 'the riddle,' ya insolent wretch?"

Robin smiled to himself in his deep cowl. "What has eighteen legs and isn't going anywhere?" he called back. He heard two mounted men move towards him. When he judged they were just ten feet away, he stood and spun around, pulling the arrow on his bowstring back as he did in one fluid motion.

"Your next move will be your last," he growled, pitching his voice as low and menacing as possible. Robin kept his arrow ready and glanced behind the two mounted guards.

At Robin's silent signal, Will leapt from his hiding place at the side of the road into the second wagon. "Evenin', friend!" he said cheerfully, training his own ready arrow on the driver. At Will's movement, Allan followed suit, making himself and his arrow a presence in the first wagon, backing up Robin. Tuck, seeing the other two move, stepped out from behind the tree he'd been hiding behind, a loaded crossbow in each hand. He smiled, keeping one crossbow trained on the second driver and the other trained on the back of the first.

"I demand to know who you are!" the overseer said angrily. He still had not sat down on the first wagon's bench. Robin thought he saw the man actually stamp his foot like a petulant child.

"We are Men of the Hood," Robin replied easily, remembering Allan's name for him from earlier. "Merry now at your expense."

Little John, his knees gripping the stout branch he had found, lowered himself so he was hanging from the branch by his knees. He whistled and tapped the two men on the bench of the second wagon, which had parked so perfectly beneath him. The men, startled, turned, and Little John punched each man out with little effort. He then swung down and took up the reins of the horses and waited for Robin's nod that they were to head back to town.

The guards didn't know how many other marauders were still hiding. They weren't paid enough to deal with spooks in the woods at night anyway. They threw down their swords and dismounted their horses. Robin jerked his head at Allan, who pulled out a rope he had found in the bottom of the first wagon. He quickly set to work tying all nine men together in a huge cluster.

Robin took over the reins of the first wagon and Little John had the second with Will beside him. They maneuvered the carts so they faced back towards Nottingham. Glancing around to see that all his men were with him, Robin slapped the reins against the team's hindquarters and they set out, headed back to town.

Behind him, he heard one of the tied-up men ask, "How much further?" Another responded, "About eleven miles." Robin smiled to himself. Let them consider this lesson the next time they tried to steal grain in the name of the Church from its rightful owners.

" 'The Lord taketh…'," Tuck said, handing Robin the mug he had relieved the overseer of.

"And we shall giveth back," Robin finished, accepting the mug and taking a swig. All in a night's work, as they said.

"My advice is to plant it now, by moonlight," Tuck said thoughtfully.

"And why is that, good friar?" Robin asked, passing the mug back to Tuck, who accepted it.

"When it sprouts, I can claim it as a miracle from God," Tuck explained. "The Church in York would never deny a miracle." He tipped the mug back. Robin laughed. Oh, yes, he liked this friar very much. He may not appear like much, but he was as clever as they came.

They drove all the way back to Nottingham, making better time than when they had headed out with the help of the horses and wagons. They spent the time planning how they would get two wagonloads of seed planted in a single night and passing the mug back and forth. Eventually, they decided that while Robin, Will, Allan, and John began planting, Tuck would go around to all the serfs' houses and rouse the people to help.

They arrived in Nottingham about two or three hours before dawn, Robin estimated. He pulled up his wagon right there by the first field, Little John stopping his wagon right behind. They set to work pulling out the sacks of seed grain and, each with a sack in hand, headed toward the dark, tilled soil while Tuck made good on his part of the plan.

As the men worked, they were quickly joined by growing ranks of peasants, at first angry to have been pulled from their precious sleep, but then enthusiastically joining in the planting as they realized they had been saved from starvation and hardship later on. With all of Nottingham out to help them, the planting moved along quickly. Tuck even joined in, grabbing a sack and joining the ranks, as the last of the peasants were roused and put to work.

Robin was finishing his last couple of rows when the heavens opened and it began to rain. He paused momentarily in the monotonous work of planting to look about him. He saw an entire town coming together to save each other, working together for the greater good, putting aside whatever petty squabbles they were currently involved in with neighbors to get this all-important work of planting the fields accomplished. He felt… at peace, like he had accomplished something, like he was a leader, even as the rain quickly grew from drizzling to driving down. Robin set back to work. It may have been a beautiful scene, but it was raining and he was getting soaking wet – for the second time that day, in fact, and he didn't fancy sticking around longer than necessary.

With the serfs' help, the fields were completely planted and Robin was heading back to Peper Harow as the sky began to lighten in the pre-dawn. He stopped in the antechamber to remove his wet boots, then walked barefooted into the great hall. He didn't want to wake Marion, so he stirred up the embers in the hearth downstairs and fed the fire more wood. He pulled one of the benches over from the table and set his wet things out on it in front of the flames so they would dry while he caught at least a couple hours' sleep. Those tasks taken care of and the fire now crackling easily, he lay down there on the flagstones and promptly fell asleep.

Marion tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep once the downpour had wakened her. She wondered if Robin was having the same problem. She sat up in her bed and stared at the wall of curtains. In her foggy brain, she realized something was wrong. _The curtains were open!_ She glanced at the floor. _Robin was missing?_ She got up and put on her robe. It was chilly in her room. She padded over on silent feet, across the cold floor to the little curtained off section of her room that was now Robin's. Nope, he wasn't there. Where could he have gone?

For a moment, the thought that he had robbed her and Walter blind and run off in the night flitted through her head, but she banished that thought immediately. She had only known him for a day and a half, but even still, she knew Robin would never do such a thing. And besides, she remembered, Robin was really after the knowledge Walter claimed to have about him. He wouldn't leave without getting his questions answered. _So where was he, in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain?_

Marion pulled her robe even closer about her shoulders and headed down to the great hall. The sky was barely beginning to lighten outside, though it was hard to tell, with the clouds hanging low over the fields. She padded downstairs and paused. The fire was going. She knew she had ordered Stephen to double-check that it had been put out before he went to bed – the last thing they needed was the hall to burn down around them. She walked over – and almost tripped over the body stretched out on the floor in front of the hearth.

It was Robin. But why in Heaven's name was he down here, instead of in her room? Had her threat to sever his manhood been more frightening than she had thought? _Did he want to spend less time around her after she had spent their morning ride telling him what to do, and making him rescue her from bog water?_

She glanced around and saw his clothes laid out on a bench. They were steaming. Had Robin been outside? Had he left and come back? She sat heavily in Robert's chair that sat always in front of the hearth, which had been his favorite place to sit and relax after a long day's hunt, or dealing with problems of running a large estate.

From her chair she studied the man sleeping soundly on the floor at her feet. He was so full of mysteries. Not only as to his whereabouts this night, but his character. She thought back to the incident at the bog, rescuing the ram, and then their confrontation with the Sheriff. Even when he wasn't sure what was going on, he always seemed to do his best. He had really risen to the occasion on that one, going along with whatever she said as she switched from keeping herself aloof from him to clinging to his arm, calling him Sir Robert, enthusiastically playing the part of loving wife. He'd smoothly transitioned into the role of doting husband easily, without giving their act away at all.

 _"Your insolence to Lady Marion I'll consider a debt between us."_ Had he meant those words, truly, or had he been playing his part in their farce? She glanced at his face, so handsome when he was unworried, in sleep. She hoped he had meant them, that he cared about her. She'd been alone for most of her life, relied upon by others to be strong, independent, in charge all the time. She could certainly do those things. But there were times, she wished she could share the burden with another, a partner, an equal…

Robin blinked rapidly. He felt watched. He looked over and saw Marion sitting in the chair he had occupied his first night at Peper Harow. Her hair was sleep-mussed and she was wrapped up tight in a shawl. The light of the fire highlighted the worry lines around her mouth.

"I thought you'd… left," she mumbled a quick excuse as to why she was watching him sleep.

Robin rubbed his hand over his still-tired eyes. "The fields have been planted." It wasn't the best explanation of why he was sleeping on the floor of the great hall, but his brain was still waking up. He saw Marion's gaze turn from questioning to wonder. "I didn't want to wake you." There, that was a better explanation for their current positions.

"How did you find the seed?" Marion asked, hardly daring to hope, to believe.

Robin half-smiled. "If you have to ask, it's not a gift," he said, his voice still rough and scratchy from sleep.

Marion stared at him for a moment, speechless. She blinked. "Thank you," she breathed. It was the best gift she had ever received from anyone. It was so much what she wanted, more than jewels or fine clothes or perfumes or anything… and it had come from this man, this stranger, whom she had known for less than two days. She knew – right then, she knew – that this man had captured her heart like no other had. Not even Robert had so perfectly understood her and shared the same goals and views as she.

Marion could see Robin shivering slightly. She hoped he wouldn't catch a cold after his night in the fields in the rain. She stood up and bent down to pull the blanket that had fallen down to his middle back up to his chin. She lingered for a moment, crouched down at his side, her hands still smoothing the blanket over his shoulder. His eyes found hers and she met his gaze determinedly. She wasn't going to play games with this man. She let him look into her eyes and see her sincere appreciation, and admiration for him.

Robin watched her walk away. He knew, after that look, that their relationship had just changed somehow… profoundly changed. He had known she would like his gift. What he had not counted on was just how strong her reaction to him and his actions would be. He saw her pause at the bottom of the steps and almost turn back to him. He hoped she would turn back, would invite him to go with her… but she faced back to the steps and ascended them alone. He was a patient man, after all. He had seen in her eyes her thanks, and had seen, perhaps unintentionally on her part, that she was softening toward him in her attitude. He could be patient. One day, she would soften to him – in her heart.

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Now we're getting down to the serious business of romance! Love it - and love getting to read comments and reviews. Keep those coming! Thanks!


	5. 5: The Runaways of Sherwood

**Author's Note** : Still here? Good! Glad you're enjoying the story! In this chapter, we get to meet the ever-wonderful runaways of Sherwood, whose relationship with Robin and Marion was massively fun to write and which I just adore. I'm thinking about creating another story (or series, or one-shots, or whatever) that follow the interactions of the boys and our favorite couple, so if you would like to see more of that, or have ideas, please leave a review/comment!

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Robin was woken another hour later by Walter's arrival in the great hall for breakfast. In fact, Walter almost tripped right over Robin on his way to the dining table.

"Who is that?" Walter shouted after a string of blasphemies that rather impressed Robin.

"Good morning, Father," Robin said with a groan.

"Whatever are you doing on the floor of my hall, boy?" Walter asked.

"Good morning, Walter," Marion announced, descending the stairs.

"Marion, why is your husband sleeping out here instead of in his bedchamber?" Walter admonished.

"He was busy last night," Marion said, grinning at Robin.

"Busy? Doing what?" Walter asked, growing frustrated by these non-answers he kept getting.

"Surprising me," Marion replied blithely. "Husband, Walter – I'm off. I won't be back until supper. So long."

"Hm," Walter grumbled. He decided to let the young be young. He was hungry for his breakfast, and so he sat at his place and called to Martha to bring bread and cheese and fruit out. "Are you off the floor yet, son?"

"I'm here," Robin said. He was in fact making his way to his seat at the table and sat down. "Are you going to tell me what I want to know yet?"

"Today you must go hunting," Walter announced, ignoring Robin's question. "You always did love to spend the day in Sherwood, supplying for our table."

"Yes, Father," Robin replied, grinning. Patience, patience…

Robin decided to head to the forest alone, let the boys sleep in and enjoy the day after the hard night's work they'd done. He would stick to the paths, not go too far in – he'd be fine on his own. Besides, he was an archer. In the army, that meant he, as well as the other archers, were responsible for hunting for the cook while on the move and when they were camped. Hunting in unfamiliar woods was a familiar pastime for him and did not intimidate him at all.

After breakfast, he went upstairs to put on fresh clothes. He chose natural colors, browns and greens, for his day of hunting. He said goodbye to Walter on his way out of Peper Harow and then went to the church, where he had left his bow and arrows the night before. It was a good thing, too – they escaped damage from the rain.

Robin pushed the church door open and went inside. His men were sleeping on their pallets where he had found them last night. He smiled and when he spied the empty bucket, where he had left it on the bench. Tuck was nowhere in sight, so Robin simply drew on his quiver and settled it gently across his back, picked up his unstrung bow, and left.

The church was right on the outskirts of town, so Robin decided to simply walk to the woods. When he got to the edge, he pulled out his bow and string and bent the bow around his knee, as he had learned, and hooked the string to each end. He pulled out two arrows and entered the greenwood.

Inside the greenwood it was like an entirely different world. The sunlight was filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead, and came down to him on the forest floor a greenish hue. The dirt was a dark, rich brown, almost black. The wind blew occasionally, setting the trees creaking and groaning, sometimes causing weak branches, pine cones, or twigs to fall to the ground. Squirrels and chipmunks ran around, making the loudest racket of any forest creature, but Robin wasn't after squirrel. He'd had enough squirrel while foraging in France. Today he would hunt proper meat – pheasant, he hoped, or any other fowl he could find.

He slowly sank his senses into the forest, tuning in to what was happening around him. His breathing slowed and deepened, his hearing stretched, and he became one with the forest, able to move almost entirely silently through the trees. He opened his eyes and moved cautiously forward, an arrow at the ready, the second arrow held in his bow hand, in case he missed with his first shot. He rarely needed it.

A sudden sound spooked a mallard out of its hiding place. Robin instinctually swung his bow up, already drawing back, and fluidly released, hitting the bird in the heart and dropping it immediately. A quick, clean kill, as his mentor had taught him. He trudged over to where he had seen the bird fall to retrieve it.

He paused to study a strange bit of construction in front of him. It looked like a strangely twisted branch that someone had strung up from another branch. He warily watched it swing from its string, twisting in the slight breeze. He looked around, hearing the noises of the forest. Did they sound different than they should? He couldn't tell. Shaking off the eerie feeling, he leaned his bow against the strange, twisted branch and leaned down to pick up his prize. As he straightened, he bumped into something behind him that started swinging and clunking together hollowly. He turned to study it. Someone had made some sort of strange talisman out of twine, bone, and hollowed out chunks of wood, which were making a strange whistling sound in the breeze. What manner of man would construct and hang such a thing out in the woods? It looked pagan and devilish and was decidedly creepy.

He looked around and thought he saw a tall, dark, graceful figure walk by. "Marion?" he called out. There was no response and the figure was gone. He hastily tied the new bird to the string of others he'd collected so far and headed purposefully toward where he'd seen – or thought he'd seen – the tall, slim figure disappear.

A small wild pig ran by, grunting and squealing quietly to itself. It was enough to make Robin pause and look cautiously around him again. He was quite aware of the stories that Sherwood was haunted. Allan himself had owned up to writing a few of them himself, so Robin knew the woods weren't really haunted. It was still wise to be careful. Robin pressed on, more slowly now.

Out of nowhere, a masked figure, tall, slightly gangly, appeared and rushed him. The demonic-looking mask gaped at him and the figure behind it was making an awful racket of a battle cry, which sounded to Robin more like the squeal of the piglet earlier.

Just as Robin ducked to block the blow from the figure's staff, he straightened and five more were there, swarming him, surrounding him, battering him from all sides with staffs and fists. So, at least they were human. He shoved the one clinging to him off and tried to run for it. They may have been smaller than him, but he was no match for what appeared now to be twenty shrieking devils.

One caught up and grabbed at his quiver. He managed to throw the demon off but went flying himself into the undergrowth. He tried to scramble up and keep going but suddenly there were demons piled on top of him and then he felt pain flare in his head and then the world went black and silent.

A few minutes later, or what he thought was a few minutes later, he blinked his eyes open. All he could see was a sturdy branch above him and he felt a sickening swaying motion. Whoever had captured him was clearly carrying him somewhere. For what purpose, he still did not know. He passed out again before he could throw up.

He came to again and felt slightly better. Whoever had hit him had not done so overly hard. He saw the sun trying to shine through the thick foliage overhead and squinted, trying to turn his head to the side to get his bearings. If he could escape, he'd need to know which direction to run to get to safety.

He heard eerie, ululating calls and saw many sets of scrawny, dirty, human legs and short, furry, pony legs around him. There was the smell of wood smoke and he could see very rough huts made of sticks and mud built haphazardly around. What strange sort of camp was this? For there was no doubt in his mind that that was where he was – some sort of camp. He'd been in enough of them over the last ten years to know one when he saw one, though this was by far the roughest and least organized setup he'd ever seen.

He was carried to some central location and the ones carrying him set him down gently. At least they didn't seem to mean harm to him – yet. He rolled to his side and immediately felt the ropes that bound his wrists to the pole loosen. They may have overwhelmed him, but it was clear that they were not overly skilled captors. With only a few subtle movements, he had his wrists and even his ankles free. Rather than reveal that information, however, he kept still, letting the ropes lay draped across his joints, so that they appeared to be doing their purpose. He was curious, now, not afraid. He turned and spied a boy emerge from the largest hut, set against a tree trunk, wiping his hands on a cloth. The tall boy, clearly the leader of this rabble, pushed his way through the chanting, ululating crowd of boys. "Go on, go on!" he said, stepping into the circle of the huddle with Robin.

The leader swaggered over to a log on the ground by Robin's head and sat, straddling the log with a lazy, entitled air. He kicked his dirty feet out in front of him, almost kicking Robin in the face, and turned to his gang of boys. "Has he spoken yet?" he asked, addressing no one in particular.

"He was spying, Loop," said one of the older boys in the crowd. Robin didn't know which boy had spoken, but could tell that he was trying to pitch his voice even lower, as the boy's voice cracked and deepened into manhood.

"Spying!" a familiar voice said, shocked. Sure enough, the circle of boys parted reverently and there stood Marion in all her grace and majesty. Loop, the leader, even stood at her appearance in the crowd. She crossed her arms and made her way over to where Robin lay on the ground, her hips swaying saucily. "Robert, I'm ashamed of you!"

Well didn't that just beat all. "Hello, Marion," Robin drawled. "I've come to save ye."

Marion, arms still crossed, looked down on him and laughed. She opened her mouth to respond to him when Loop interrupted. "Know him?"

"Boys," she said, looking around at the circle surrounding them, still grinning hugely. " _This_ is Sir Robert Loxley – my… husband," she managed to finish without choking on her words. "Sir Robert," she turned to Robin, "the runaways of Sherwood." She uncrossed her arms and gestured to indicate the group of dirty boys. Robin's mind was racing. Marion stood still, her hands on her hips as she studied him, still apparently tied on the ground.

Loop, their leader, glanced at Marion. "Untie him," he ordered the boys.

Robin looked over at Loop gratefully and started to get up. Before he'd even made it to his knees Marion interrupted.

"No, I don't think _spies_ should be let off so easily," she announced, sitting on the opposite end of Loop's log, down by Robin's feet.

Robin settled back onto his side. His shifting had at least moved the ropes to quite a favorable position. He glared over at Marion. "That was unkind." The sassy wench.

"You were a Crusader?" Loop asked, leaning forward intently.

Robin leaned back on his elbow to look at Loop again. "Yes," he admitted.

"Did you hear that boys?" Loop said, letting his gaze sweep his assembly. He continued even louder, "You bested a Crusader!" A rumble of mumbled words and laughter buzzed through the crowd. Loop turned back to his prisoner. "My men are good fighters," he said, trying to show off for this Crusader he had captured. Loop wanted nothing more than to maintain his leadership over his large group, and be seen as a man, no longer a boy.

Robin eased the pole into his hands. "I don't know about that," he said. "I think the weight of numbers might have been in their favor." He had to save _some_ face here, after all. He glanced around from his place on the ground. "But they do move silently like the creatures of the forest." He had to give credit where it was due. He focused back on Loop. "But that's only a skill if you stay as a man. You don't _become_ the creatures you hunt." Loop leaned forward, listening intently.

"We're soldiers," he said defensively. He recognized the truth in what the Crusader said, but wasn't ready to admit that he had made any mistakes.

"No you're not," Robin said. He was disgusted that these boys would want to be soldiers. But he reminded himself that they had not seen the ten years of war that he had. They had no idea of the reality of war – only stories spun by poets and bards at firesides, who sang only of the glory to be had in battle, and none of the fear, stink, and monstrosity of real combat. "Soldiers fight for a cause. What's yours?" Out of the corner of his eye, Robin saw Marion studying him thoughtfully as he spoke to these boys, who were so obviously desperate for a hero, a role model to look up to. In a snap, Robin decided he would fill that role, if they would let down their guards enough to let him teach them. "You don't have one. That makes you poachers!" he said, loud enough for the whole group to hear him clearly. "And common thieves!" The boys were angrily pushing in on him. "With a lot to learn!"

"Like what?" Loop demanded. And there it was, the opportunity Robin had been waiting for. He slightly adjusted his grip on the pole.

"I could teach you… how to tie knots!" he yelled, launching the pole at Loop, who caught it but was knocked off the log. Robin became a whirl of motion, rising from the ground in the second of stunned silence that followed his sudden action. He spun around, grabbing a stout staff out of the hands of a boy behind him. "I could teach you which wood to get to make your bows stronger," he said, whirling the makeshift quarterstaff and snapping another boy's rough-hewn bow in half. "I could teach you how to make arrows that fly more than twenty feet." He whirled his miniature weapon in a move that Robin knew did nothing but would look highly skilled and impressive to the uneducated boys around him. "And I can help Marion teach ye how to stay clean," he said, stabbing the ground with enough force that the quarterstaff would stand up on its own. "So you won't get sick." He held out both hands to Loop, who was watching his performance from where he'd fallen with the pole on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Robin saw Marion watching the proceedings with an avid interest, a dirty, scrawny boy on her lap, and Robin passingly thought how good she looked surrounded by children. He quickly returned his attention to Loop, who had refused to accept his help to stand. Robin grabbed him by his tunic under his arms and hauled him to his feet. "I don't know who you're fighting, son, but it's not me," he said quietly, for Loop's ears only. "I'm not your enemy."

Loop stood there, and Robin knew he'd effectively taken all the control and admiration the boys held for Loop away from him, and that if he didn't tread carefully now, Loop would hate him forever and he would not be able to help these boys. He waited for Loop to look him in the eye. Loop reluctantly raised his gaze to meet the Crusader's. "If you want to chat, you know where to find me," Robin told him in a soft undertone. He held out his hand, as he would to an equal – as he would to another man. Loop hesitated only for the briefest of seconds before clasping Robin's hand and pumping it up and down. It was a start, Robin thought to himself, not at all displeased with the start he had made. It would take time to earn the boys' trust completely, but he was patient. In time, the boys would not be able to resist the allure of a war hero, Robin knew.

He released Loop's hand and walked over to the tallest boy in the group, who was holding his bow and quiver, and as he moved, the boys stepped back in awe. He snatched his possessions back from the boy who was holding them. The boy next to him held the string of birds Robin had caught. He snatched those back too. The audacity of these rascals! He paused and took a last good look around and spied Marion, still sitting with the boy on her lap. "Wife," he called, jerking his head to indicate she should follow him, and set out of the camp with purposeful strides, not waiting to see if she would catch up with him. He could barely control the grin on his face. This morning had turned out even more productive than he had thought. He'd set out to hunt for their table, and he had done that, but even more, he had found out the nest of the run-off village boys.

He suddenly remembered the woman from the village yesterday. _"Will you find my Jamie? Tell him to come home?"_ she had pleaded. He had been uncertain what she was asking him to do until Marion had explained. Now, unintentionally, he was doing exactly what the woman had begged of him. He let himself grin. He hadn't told the boys outright that they go home immediately, but the ideas he had planted in their heads were stronger, and required some time to take root and grow. But when the boys admitted to themselves they really did need help, and they were ready to be boys again instead of playing at soldiers in the woods, well. They would be choosing to come home and stay with their families, and that would keep the boys at home more strongly than any command Robin could give them, because they were making the choice for themselves. It didn't look to them like Robin was ordering them around. Oh, he knew what choice they would eventually make – that performance in the woods had not been for nothing, he had completely captured their fascination – but it would feel to them like he was giving them a choice, and giving them a say in their futures, and he knew that was all they sought. He couldn't even fault them for acting the way they had. These were uncertain and desperate times, and from what he had seen of leaders – both good and bad – on various battlefields, Robin knew that the best leaders allowed their followers to think for themselves and make choices. Men who chose to follow their leader were more loyal than those ordered to follow, and that, Robin thought, was a lesson not only the village boys could learn, but some others in England he could name.

* * *

Ah, love my runaways of Sherwood... and the way I was able to allow Robin to connect his experience with the boys to his experience as a follower of King Richard. Anyway, like I said in my A/N at the beginning, exploring the relationship between Marion, Robin, and the boys is a project I might undertake, so if you support that undertaking, let me know, and if you have ideas for me to incorporate, let me know - I'll write the ones I feel I can do justice to, and always give the credit for the idea to whom it is owed. Keep those reviews and comments coming!


	6. 6: Of Bonfires and Memories

**Author's Note** : Helloooooo! Buckle your seatbelts, readers, we got us another long one here. A quick little heads-up: this chapter gets emotionally heavy for Robin, so, hey, that's coming. But, we also get to par-tay, so there's that.

Something new this chapter: there will be a section break that looks like this [ *** ] across the middle of the page. I use this to indicate a shift in scene or in point of view. In this chapter, it's a scene shift. I'll try to put in my A/N of each chapter what it should be, but its purpose should be pretty clear as you read.

Also new this chapter - an OC! Her name is Hilda and she's the Cook. Just pointing her out because she's mine completely, and especially should not be plagiarized, and she's not canon. I mean, I'm sure Peper Harow had a cook, but it's never stated, and so I took artistic license with Hilda.

Enough announcements! On with the chapter!

* * *

The week had been so packed with activity, Robin couldn't help but marvel. So much more went into running a big estate like this than he had ever imagined. He was either hunting, settling peasants' squabbles, helping oversee the fields, assisting at odd jobs around the place, mending tack with the stable master, and, yes, checking in with the village boys with Marian every couple of days, helping her administer medicine and make sure no one was too hungry. At the end of each day, he sat down with Marion and Walter for supper. It took him a couple of days to get used to being served, but he eventually learned to nod or mutter his thanks and quickly rejoin the conversation. Walter was still playing games with him, refusing to give up any information he knew about Robin's past. Robin bit the inside of his cheek and continued playing the role of Robert returned. Patience, patience…

"We must have a proper celebration for the return of my son," Walter announced at supper on Friday night.

"We rang the church bells," Marion pointed out, taking a sip from her goblet.

"I mean a real celebration," Walter grumbled. "We need a bonfire."

"That would take up a lot of supplies," Marion said evenly. She wasn't outright against such a party, but she had to keep the welfare of the people in mind always.

"Well, with the crops starting to sprout, it looks like we will survive the winter just fine, will we not?" Walter countered. There was a sparkle in his blind old eyes that made Robin think the old man might just suspect why the 'barren' fields were suddenly sprouting.

Marion merely dipped her fingers delicately in the wash bowl on the table. "Very well, Walter. I'll start making preparations with Cook. If you'll excuse me," she said, standing. Robin stood up at the same time. She glanced at him wonderingly, nodded to acknowledge his thoughtful manners, and left, calling out Cook's name. Robin sat back down.

"And what say you to my idea, my son, hm?" Walter asked. Robin shook his head slightly. The old man always insisted on calling him 'my son' or 'Robert,' even when no one else was around. It was almost as if he was trying to make up for something.

"I say: I haven't been to such a party in a long, long time," Robin said.

"Hear, hear," Walter raised his goblet to Robin, who tipped his own goblet against the proffered one and they both drank. "This calls for more wine. Pour me some, son, quick while Marion isn't looking. The lass doesn't think I know she waters my wine!"

Robin laughed outright and did as requested. He couldn't wait for the party to start.

Marion found Cook in the kitchen behind the hall. It was detached from the main building in case a fire broke out.

"Cook," Marion said from the doorway.

"Come in, child, come in!" Cook said. Cook, Christian name Hilda, was just past middle aged. She was a war widow, like many of the women in town, and was raising two daughters, who helped her in the kitchen with food preparation. Cook was one of the first people to really accept Marion and her role as leader of the household when she had first come to Peper Harow, and Marion looked to her like a second mother. "What can I do for you? Is everything alright at the table?"

"Yes, everything was wonderful, as always," Marion assured her. She entered the kitchen proper and sat on one of the stools at the large central counter that dominated the kitchen space. "I wanted to discuss plans with you. Walter wants to hold a bonfire tomorrow night."

"A bonfire! Oh, bless me, but we haven't had such a gathering in ages!" Hilda said. She sat down next to Marion, the better to talk and also ease her weary feet.

"Indeed," Marion agreed. "But, I think, it is time we celebrated. Everything is so bleak, but we have much to celebrate. We should, while we are able."

"Yes, yes! The return of our Lord, Sir Robert, of course, and the crops are beginning to sprout… taxes will be due soon, which is always a worry, of course, but I think we'll actually be able to meet them this year!" Hilda gushed. She let out a happy sigh. "It will be nice to have such a party. What should we serve, then, do you think?"

Marion and Hilda planned for a roast pig as the grand centerpiece of the feast. They also made plans for many different sorts of sweet and savory pies, breads, vegetables, and other foods that would be easy to eat with the hands, while standing outside.

"We'll have to send the men out hunting first thing in the morning, of course, to get all the meat we'll need in time for it to cook for evening," Hilda said, biting her lip.

"Sir Robert and his friends will have no problems, I'm sure," Marion assured the cook. "They'll bring back everything we need, and probably more."

"Hm, yes, Sir Robert has done a fine job bringing in meat for me. Why, just today, he brought in a dozen more quail for me!"

"He has settled in quite naturally to the rhythm of things here," Marion mused, thinking back especially to earlier in the week and the incidents with the Sheriff and the village boys, and the way he planted the fields for her.

"That he has. If I may be so bold, my lady, how are you two… getting on? I know what it's like to lose a husband, but not what it's like to have him come back after so many years away."

"Oh," Marion said, unsure how to respond. "Things are, hm, going just fine, I dare say."

"You are one of the lucky ones, that's for sure. God is surely looking after the two of you, He is," Hilda said, either not noticing or overlooking Marion's stumble. "I prayed for him every day he was gone that he would come back safely to us, him and my Jack and all our other men, too."

"That was very kind of you, Hilda," Marion said, touched by the older woman's generosity.

"Ach, the least I could do, stuck here as we are," Hilda replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my lady, I'd best be finding my bed. There will be work aplenty tomorrow, and a lot of people to impress with my cooking!"

"Of course, Hilda," Marion said, standing and pushing her stool up close under the table. "I'll come by after breakfast to help."

"Now don't you worry your pretty head, dear, I'll have this kitchen running bright and earlier, tighter than a navy ship! Good night," Hilda said. She, too, pushed her chair under the table and took her leave.

Marion returned to the great hall. Walter had already gone to his chamber for the evening, but Robin was still there, seated in Robert's chair. He was gazing at the fire and idly fondling the ears of her favorite wolfhound. The dog turned at her entrance and gave a soft whine. At the sound Robin turned to watch her approach him.

"Are we set for tomorrow then?" he asked softly.

"We will be, if you and your lads can get us a brace of rabbits by noon," Marion replied. She reached down to pet her dog.

"We'll have them by midmorning to the Cook," Robin promised. He turned his gaze back to the flames that were starting to die down in the grate.

Marion straightened up. "Very good, then." She turned, then paused and turned back towards Robin. "Do you…" she trailed off.

"Do I what?" Robin asked, looking up at her.

"Are you… settled… in… here," Marion said, struggling to express what she wanted to ask.

"What are you asking me, Marion?" Robin asked. It was uncanny, she thought, the way he could see right through her sometimes. He knew that wasn't exactly what she was asking. However, she didn't think she was ready to ask him what was really going through her head.

"Good night, my dear," she said. She quickly turned on her heel and headed purposefully for the stairs, hiking up her skirts and going up to her bedchamber. She whistled for the dogs, which happily left their places on the flagstones to join her in a pack.

Robin watched her go and smiled slightly to himself. Ah, yes, he thought. She was getting closer and closer every day to the words he truly wanted to hear. As the days had passed, she had more easily and more often included him in the conversation at suppers, had invited him to go with her to visit the greenwood or to go riding to check on the serfs in the fields. Yes, she was softening in her attitude towards him. Her heart, though… that still remained to be seen.

Robin lingered in the great hall another good ten minutes before following Marion's steps. He wanted to give her plenty of time to finish any private business she needed to take care of before he entered the room. Of course, he always knocked and gained her permission before entering. He was under no false impressions – this was her bedchamber, not theirs. He was a guest, still, an intruder into her personal life. He would take all the time necessary to show her he was worth letting in, not only through the bedchamber door, but also into her life.

Robin was filling two mugs of mead when he saw Little John, easily head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, walk by with another barrel of the stuff. Little John turned and shouted over his shoulder, "Come, Allan! I'll get them drinking. You get them dancing!"

Robin lingered off to the side of the drinks tables and watched Allan scamper to the musicians' ensemble with his lute in hand. Will Scarlet joined him, and they struck up a happy foot-stomper, as Will would have described it, that did indeed get the people dancing.

Robin smiled and made his way through the happy, dancing crowd. Over to his left was a large bonfire, and a roast pig was stuck on a spit over it, being carefully, evenly turned by a number of maids from Peper Harow under the ever-watchful eye of Cook. He made for where he knew Walter was sitting in his supper chair, which had been brought out of the great hall specifically for him this evening, so he could "watch over" the crowd and enjoy the festivities. Stephen, his manservant, and another woman sat with him, also watching the dancing crowds and whispering together.

Robin reached Walter and nudged the old man's hand with his, guiding it to grasp the mug he had brought to him. Walter accepted the mug and took a healthy swig.

"Music, laughter, the crackle of the bonfire and a roasting pig," he said, resettling in his seat. " _Life_ has returned. You have returned it, Robin."

Robin grinned and took another sip of mead. He glanced out at the crowd, seeing what Walter did. He spied Tuck getting in on the dancing, even, and chuckled when, in his enthusiasm, Tuck bumped into the Sheriff, who had slunk into the party late, and caused the good Sheriff to spill mead all down the front of his expensive-looking black velvet tunic. The song ended and a great cheer went up around the gathered crowd.

Then, one section of the crowd parted respectfully and Marian appeared. She took Robin's breath away. She was dressed in a gown he had never seen. Dark, it was, with swirls of metallic threads that shimmered in the firelight. She wore baubles in her ears that looked like queenly pearls, and her hair was swept back to swing free behind her, without getting in her way. A belt tilted fashionably on her hips just so and hung down the front of her skirt. Robin swallowed thickly.

Marion paused a few feet away and held a hand out to him in invitation. He set down his mug and accepted her hand. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw other party guests were coupling up, some staring as the Lord and Lady of the House approached the bonfire hand in hand. Amongst those staring were Allan and Will, who nodded to each other and struck up a sweet, slow ballad.

Everyone gathered watched as Sir Robert and Lady Marion faced each other. As the notes of the flute soared around them, Sir Robert bowed to his Lady, and she curtsied back. They stepped closer, and apart, each searching to remember the steps of the dance and finding that the less they thought about their actions, the more naturally they came. They circled each other, standing right shoulder to right shoulder, so close that Robin could smell the rose scent of Marion's hair. Other couples quickly joined the dance their Lord and Lady had started, bowing and curtsying, coming together and moving apart.

Robin and Marion were blind to the couples around them. They came together in time to the strains from the flute, their hands coming up in mirror images of each other, stepping apart and moving back together again. But instead of stepping back, as the dance prescribed, Marion stayed close, liking very much Robin's nearness. She wished she could tell him how much she liked his strength, his wit, and his unceasing efforts to help her rebuild Nottingham bottom to top. She wished she could tell him how much she appreciated his help with the village boys in the greenwood, the way he had cleverly stolen the grain from the Church and planted it in the fields where it belonged, and had always respected her pride. Oh, sure, he had rescued the ram before her, and called her out when she suggested to the boys that spies not be let off the hook so easily, but there was a mutual understanding and give-and-take behind all of their encounters that not even the real Robert had given her.

Robin could admit to himself he was surprised that Marion was being so bold with him now. He liked it, though, and found it in keeping with what he had learned of her character. She wasn't shy, and spoke her thoughts plainly and straightforwardly. She was a woman with an agenda, but not a secret one, who went after what she wanted, whether it was the seeds to be in Nottingham soil or the village boys to be healthy. She always found a way to make things work.

He could tell, though, they weren't quite there yet. He did not kiss her, though her lips were right there… No, patience was still his game. He moved his own lips up and brushed them against her brow. He would wait for her, his gesture said. He would not take what she was not ready to give, and he would only take what was freely and chosen to be given.

Marion closed her eyes and took a half step closer, leaning her forehead on Robin's strong shoulder. She understood what he was telling her, without words, and she once again marveled that God had seen fit to send such a wonderful man into her life.

Robin held Marion close. Beyond the circle of firelight, he thought he heard an increase in the sounds of the night creatures of the forest. He smiled. Loop would enter the circle he and Marion were part of when he was ready, just as the woman in his arms now would come to him when she was fully ready to be part of his family in truth. He had always wanted a family, having grown up on his own. And he wanted that family to be with Marion.

Their moment ended and they moved apart. Marion stepped back, still holding Robin's hands in hers and, looking into his eyes, she smiled, not flinching away. He nodded in response, squeezed her fingers, and then dropped her hands and went to speak to Allan, to praise him on his excellent timing and musical ability.

"Marion!" Marion heard Walter calling her.

"I'm here, Walter," she replied, moving closer, her thoughts still on Robin.

"This is my old friend, William Marshal," a gentleman with swept-back, thick grey hair stood and bowed to her. "Lady Marion Loxley, my son's wife," Walter said, making the introductions.

"My Lady, I was glad to see Sir Robert when he disembarked in London," William Marshal said.

"I think you know better, Marshal," Walter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned to Marion, "Sir William, I know, would like to meet Robin Longstride again."

Marion stared at Walter in shock for a moment before her gaze caught the very man they were speaking about heading right for them. Sir William's eyes had also widened, and followed Marion's gaze. As Robin headed for them, Marshal stood and went out to meet him halfway. Marion could only watch, confused. She had a feeling they were all about to learn what Walter had been hiding from them all along. She leaned over Walter slightly to try to listen to Robin's and Marshal's conversation better.

"We've met before," Marshal said in greeting.

"Yes, sir, I know – in London," Robin replied.

"No," Marshal shook his head. "When you were a child." He paused, studying Robin's face, looking for some sign of recognition. "Hobby-horse age." He sighed. "Sir Walter and I returned from the Holy Land to fetch you home, but you'd gone. We had lost Thomas Longstride's son." He shook his head, ashamed. "It was a wound that… never healed."

Marion couldn't believe what she was hearing. It seemed a lot more lies had been spun than she had been made aware of. Even less aware was Robin, if the look of surprise and calculation on his face was anything to go by. She stared at Walter, who merely gazed into the middle distance, nodding his head with everything Marshal was saying.

After a few more whispered words, Marshal said his goodbyes, promising to visit Walter properly after the matter of the French invaders had been settled. Robin's ears perked at the mention of French soldiers invading England, but held his tongue. Marshal and the men he was leading left.

"I am weary," Walter announced. "I think it's time for these old bones to find their bed for the night." Robin stepped forward and offered his arm to Sir Walter to escort him back to Peper Harow. Stephen and another manservant picked up Walter's hand-carved chair and carried it together behind their lords. Marion glanced back at the party and then again at the small group slowly making their way back to the hall. Deciding the people of Nottingham would feel freer without any of their nobles there to watch them, she left. She was also dying of curiosity.

Back at Peper Harow, Stephen and the manservant replaced Walter's chair at the head of the table. Walter dismissed Stephen from his duties and allowed him to return to the festivities, thanking him for his help. Stephen bowed and he and the other servant all but ran back to the bonfire.

"Come with me, Robin. We have much to discuss," Walter said, patting his arm that he still leaned on.

"Yes, sir," Robin hastily agreed. He glanced back at Marion, who still lingered in the doorway, uncertain of her inclusion in their meeting. "Go on. I'll be along as soon as we're through. Don't wait up for me, my dear."

She nodded and ran ahead of the two men up to her room. She prepared for bed and lay down beneath the covers, but her mind was too busy racing from thought to worry to concern to question, and so she, just this once, called her favorite hound over and invited him into bed with her, and she sat, stroking the dog's soft head, waiting for Robin to return.

Robin had never assisted a nobleman with his dress, let alone a blind man, but Walter simply directed him where to go and what to do, and Robin had him tucked up in bed in short order.

"You need to know what I know," Walter said, shifting to a more comfortable position. Robin leaned forward in the chair he had pulled up to Walter's bedside. "Your father was a stonemason. Is that pleasing to you?"

"Yes. It is," Robin replied, hardly breathing. Finally, he was getting his answers.

"But he was more than that," Walter continued. "He was a visionary." His voice held a tone of awe and admiration Robin had never heard from the old man before.

"What did he see?"

"That kings have a need for their subjects no less than their subjects have need of kings. A dangerous idea," Walter added. "Your father was a philosopher. He had a way of speaking that took you by the ears and by the heart."

Suddenly, in his mind, Robin saw – the same man, the older version of himself he had seen when Walter had first drawn Robert's sword when Robin gave it to him a week ago. He knew he was seeing his memory of his father, what he must have looked like to his child-self. _'None of these things can be written down, Robin,' he was saying. He and his child-self had their hands in wet cement. 'You must commit them to your very soul. This is the science of memory.' The man pointed to an upturned stone in front of them, and his child-self read the words haltingly. 'Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions.'_

Robin jolted back to the present. His breathing was harsh. He couldn't believe it. The science of memory… rise and rise again… he knew!

"Finally, hundreds listened," Walter said. Robin focused on the old man's face again. "Thousands, who took up his call for the rights of all ranks, from baron to serf."

" 'Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions,'" Robin said. In his mind's eye, he saw his father place the stone, words down, over their wet handprints and seal it in place. His father picked up his child-self, hugging him close and then tossing him joyfully in the air and catching him, his child-self shrieking with joy, and hundreds of men around them cheering as well… "What happened to him?"

"Close your eyes," Walter said gently. Robin blinked and then closed his eyes completely, and was again slammed by his memories, returning at last.

 _He felt a heavy hand, not his father's, settle on his child-self's shoulder. He escaped the hand and ran to the front of the crowd, where his father stood, tall and proud._

' _Longstride, give up the charter and their names!' a voice commanded._

"You were there!" Walter said urgently, leaning toward Robin. "You saw it!"

 _His father shook his head calmly. 'I will not.'_

 _His father handed his sword ceremoniously to a knight whose face Robin could not see, for he was wearing a helmet that shielded his features. Two men forced his father to his knees. The crowd around little child-Robin surged forward, but were pushed back again by the swords of armed guards. Child-Robin was picked up and carried off over the shoulder of a knight in chainmail. He saw the man lift his father's sword over his head with both hands. Even as a young child, he knew what that meant and he screamed, the only weapon a child possessed… the sword descended… he kept screaming…_

Robin's breathing was harsh, the only sound in Walter's bedchamber, save the crackle of the fire. Robin felt a tear escape and slide down his cheek and he quickly dashed at it with one hand.

"Not dead," Walter said, shaking his head. "Not now."

Robin shook his head. "Not now," he breathed, voice shaky. He took a deep, shuddery breath, and put his hand over Walter's clasped ones that sat on the bedspread. He leaned his forehead against his hand as well. "Thank you."

Robin stood and headed for the door. He needed to process all his memory had flooded him with. And he knew exactly who could help him filter through everything he was feeling.

"Robin," Walter called from the bed. Robin paused in the doorway and turned back. "He'd be proud of the man you are today." Robin didn't trust his voice just yet. He nodded, and then went out into the hall, closing Walter's door behind him. He headed for Marion's chamber at the other end of the corridor. He paused at the top of the stairs. Stephen and his friends were returning.

"I've settled him in bed, but forgot the candles," he called to Stephen from the top of the stairs.

"I'll check in on Sir Walter before I head in, my Lord," Stephen assured him.

"Thank you, Stephen," Robin replied. That was all he had in him in the way of niceties, so he turned and went into Marion's bedchamber, barely remembering to knock softly.

"Enter," came the immediate response. He opened the door, stepped in, and shut it behind him. Marion was sitting up in bed, her wolfhound taking up a large portion of the bed.

"I thought I told ye not to wait up for me," he said.

"As if I could sleep, worrying about you," she tossed back. Robin nodded, a grin tugging the corners of his mouth as he leaned against the door still, head bowed. Yes, she was just the person to help him sort out what was going through his mind.

"Thanks for the concern; I appreciate it," he said.

"So," she said. He finally raised his head and looked at her. She studied him for a moment. Even having seen him fresh off the road from the Holy Land, even after he swam through a bog to rescue her, and even after he spent the better part of a night somehow chasing down their seed grain and planting it by moonlight, she had never seen him look more worn than he did now. It was as if the weight of the entire world were pulling his shoulders to the earth, and she wanted nothing more than to lift him back up again. The Robin she knew did not let the world get the best of him like this.

She did the only thing she could think of. She pushed her dog off the bed, scooted over to the far side of the mattress, and jerked her head to the spot she had been occupying, indicating he should join her there.

Robin studied her a moment. He nodded, accepting whatever she was offering him now. He pulled off his tunic, setting it carefully on the bedside table, but left his under shirt on. He sat on the edge of the bed and leveraged off first one boot and then the other. He scooted back and then lay down on the soft mattress. Idly, his mind registered that it felt damn good to be in a proper bed again instead of the nest of blankets and dogs on the hearth flagstones.

He lay there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, just breathing. He stacked his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes, then turned to look over at Marion, who hadn't moved.

"Do you want to tell me?" she asked quietly.

He studied her a moment. "Ask me nicely," he said.

She gave him a look. "Please, dear husband," she said dryly, "Tell me how you're doing this fine, celebratory evening," she finished grandly.

He smiled at her and rolled to his side to face her, but didn't answer her right away. Instead, he held his right arm in the air, inviting her to lay beside him. She hesitated for the briefest of seconds before gracefully and carefully laying down next to him, facing him, her hands tucked under her cheek, her eyes studying his intently.

Robin was quickly getting lost in her beautiful eyes, so he reached out, turned her over so she faced away from him, and then hauled her close, into the curve of his body. His right arm he left draped across her waist, respectfully distant from any private areas she had not given him permission to explore. He nuzzled the nape of her neck slowly, inhaling the scent of roses and wood smoke, the finest perfume he could recall ever smelling. Thus settled in, he sighed fierce enough to move her hair, and began in a low voice to tell her what had happened with Walter.

Marion focused on what he was saying, his low voice right there by her ear. His arm around her waist was a distraction, albeit a pleasant one. She decided she quite liked the way he held her – it made her feel cherished and important. She realized she had zoned out on what Robin was saying. Determined to listen, she scooted backwards, closer to his body heat, which was wonderfully cozy in the chilly night air, and listened as Robin told her about his childhood, as he had known it, and what he had learned from Walter just now.

"A stonemason, a philosopher, and a visionary," she murmured when he was done. "He sounds like quite a man. I would have liked to meet him."

"Walter told me he would have been proud of the man I've become," Robin admitted.

"As am I," Marion felt safe to say, since she wasn't looking at him directly. She still blushed to say the words. "I'm sorry for your loss, Robin."

"Thank you," he whispered. He hugged her tight.

"And," she continued, finding her courage from his endearing hug, "I have to say, though I've obviously never met him, it sounds to me like you're a lot like him." She paused to gather her thoughts, her hand coming up to cover his where it rested against her stomach. "I've seen the way you treat others, Robin. You give Walter the respect he obviously deserves as elder, nobleman, and host. But I have also seen the way you put the serfs at ease when they come to you nervously asking your guidance with a problem. And especially with the way you handled Loop and the other boys. That was… most skillfully done," she said, unable to keep the smile out of her voice. "You are your father's son, Robin Longstride, and I am of the opinion that that is exactly what we need."

"You are, without a doubt, the most amazing woman I have ever met," Robin sighed. He nuzzled her neck again. "Thank you for listening, and for your opinion. But now, I have to insist we both sleep. This evening has been a whirlwind."

"That it has," Marion mumbled. "Good night, dear husband."

"Good night, wife," Robin said, his eyes already closed. His last thought before sleep claimed him completely, was that this bed, and this woman in his arms, felt more right than anything he had ever experienced before.

* * *

Aw, that was fluffy. I like the idea of Marion and Robin supporting each other without having to be physical - so much of a relationship is mental/emotional. I think we forget that sometimes. Anyway, please like/comment/review!


	7. 7: Attack on Nottingham

**Author's Note** : Okay, this a long one, but hear me out - I combined what would have been a dinky little chapter into the next big chapter, and so here we are. There are a lot of [ *** ] in this chapter - they're all for shifts in point of view. Part of what makes changing POV so difficult is that, especially in A/V media, multiple things are going on at once that, as a writer, I have to take the time to write out one at a time, when in the movie, they're happening simultaneously. Stick with it, I tried to make the transitions as clear and easy to follow as possible. If you have suggestions for improvement - you know what to do!

 **WARNING***WARNING***WARNING** : This chapter contains: sexual assault/attempted rape, battle/combat, and for like a second, mild torture, and also I included brief nudity (but no funny business) in an original scene of my own at the end - not explicit. If you've seen the movie, you know what I'm talking about (this chapter covers the French soldiers posing as tax collectors attacking Nottingham). If you're unfamiliar with the movie - it's not bad. Nothing is terribly explicit, just mentioned plainly.

Also - I apologize in advance for the French. I don't speak French, the French words were not included in the script I was working from, and all I had at my disposal was Google Translate and my own best guesswork.

That's enough warnings and disclaimers for one chapter - on with the story!

* * *

When Marion awoke the next morning she was alone in her bed. Though this was how she spent every night the last ten years, and even more years before that, it still somehow felt wrong. Then the events of the evening before came rushing back to her – the bonfire, the dance, Robin, Sir William Marshal, and Robin's father. She blushed to recall the intimate yet wholly respectful way Robin had held her as he confided in her about his past, and the history Walter had finally divulged.

Marion shook her head at her own foolish behavior. It had been dangerous to let Robin get so close, both physically and emotionally, she knew that, in her mind. But in her heart, she knew that given the choice, she would have done the same thing all over again. Like it or not, she was beginning to care for the man. He was so considerate, so giving, of his time and his abilities… and he was clever, and fun-loving, and, if she was being honest with herself, everything she'd ever hoped for in a man.

Her thoughts were going in a dangerous direction. Marion leapt out of bed and rushed through her morning routine to take her mind away from the path it had almost went down. When she was ready, she gave her cheeks a last pinch for color, and headed for the great hall. She could hear Sir Walter and Robin before she could see them.

"Here is my copy of the main contract," Walter was saying. Marion glanced over the railing and saw Walter, half-seated on the table beside Robin, who sat in what was now his customary seat. Walter unrolled a fairly large piece of parchment that was covered in words and images, but she was too far away to make out any details. Marion hung back, not going down the stairs just yet, giving the men a little more privacy before she made her presence known.

"This charter of rights," Walter explained to Robin, "was written by your father. And here are…" he trailed off, unrolling the parchment and revealing a long list of shields, "there are the names of all the barons that signed the charter. Fitzrobert, Baldwin, Marshal, and myself… What he wanted was a charter for every man…to have the same rights…"

"Sir Walter?" a serving maid interrupted them. Walter and Robin turned to look at her. "A messenger for you."

"Bring him in!" Walter called. The woman turned and nodded at the man hanging back in the shadows of the doorway. "Step forward, sir." The man did as he was told and came up to the men hunched together over the table.

"My Lord," he said, effecting a polite bow.

"I'm listening," Walter replied. Sometimes, he really wished he didn't have to stand on such formalities, but he was a knight of the realm, and sometimes things had to be done in their proper course.

"Peterborough's been burned by the King's men," the man began his message, his voice gruff from much use. "Fitzrobert gathers an army to slay King John in London. Marshal requests your presence at counsel in Barnsdale," the man finished his recitation.

This was troubling news indeed. Walter waved his hand. "Wait outside." The messenger bowed and left the great hall.

From her station on the landing above, Marion chewed her lip thoughtfully, a bad habit from childhood. She knew Walter would not – could not – go to the counsel. That left only one person who could. She felt tears begin to prick the backs of her eyes. Just when she had started to get to know him, he was going to rush off to war! She couldn't believe it was happening again – just like Robert had done.

"'Cometh the hour, cometh the man,'" Walter quoted. He turned to Robin. "The time for pretense is over. Now – hold me, like a son," he said. Marion looked down in time to see Walter open his arms to Robin, who hesitated only for a moment before stepping into the circle of Walter's arms. Walter pounded Robin on the back good-heartedly. "Go," he said, stepping back. He held Robin at arm's length for a moment and nodded, as if quite sure of himself now.

She was a fool. She whirled and ran silently to her room and locked the door before the tears came. Men were all the same. She'd been an idiot to think this one was any different. Even the timeframe was the same – a week had gone by since she met him, and then, Athena called, and he turned to her voice instead of Marion's. Was it her? Was she lacking in some way, that the men in her life abandoned her for fields of battle after just a week of knowing her? She threw herself down on the bed, one arm draped across her eyes. No. She was not at fault here. Those stupid, pigheaded, stubborn, insolent, bloody men – they were the ones at fault. They were the ones who felt insecure unless they could prove themselves the most ruthless killers to other men. She'd show that idiot downstairs. If he returned to Nottingham from this latest battle call, she'd ignore him completely. Yes, that's what she would do. And if he was upset, well, he could always turn to his mistress, that Siren, Athena, calling him to ever-more-dangerous battles, fighting other men's wars. She was _done_ sitting home alone, waiting for a man to return to her.

A knock sounded at the door. Marion sat up with a start. She was in no fit state for anyone to see her, not like this, her eyes red and puffy and her hair mussed. She remained silent, hardly daring to move, to breathe. The knock came again, more forcefully. Still, she remained where she was, sitting on the edge of the bed – the edge Robin had slept on the night before… she blocked that thought immediately. Listening hard, it appeared whoever was at the door had given up and she could hear footsteps heading away down the corridor.

She got up and went to the window. Down in the courtyard, men and horses were crowding around and bumping into one another as they prepared to set off. She stepped to the side of the window so she could look out without being seen. Against her own wishes, her eyes sought out Robin in the crowd. Astride his beautiful grey horse, she found him easily enough. He was standing with his men-at-arms Will, Allan, and Little John, seeming in deep discussion with them, probably last-minute preparation checks.

Glancing down, Marion saw one of the house maids run out the door into the chaos of the yard. She started, afraid for the girl's safety. There were a lot of men and horses – she could easily not be seen and accidentally trampled in the confusion. However, it appeared Robin had seen her, for he nudged his horse and quickly approached her. Marion saw him lean down and whisper to the girl. She shook her head no, curtsied, then ran back to the safety of the manor. For some reason, Robin looked disappointed. In spite of that, he spun his horse, rejoined his friends, and they rode off.

Marion watched them until she could no longer see the smudge of white with a smaller, darker smudge on top of it that was Robin and his mount. At last, she turned away from the window. She looked about her room sadly. Waiting for a man to return was tedious, exhausting work.

Robin spotted the girl he had sent into the keep running out into the busy courtyard. Before she could miss him, he had nudged his mount over. "Maggie!" he called. He pulled up beside her and leaned down so she could hear him over the noise the other men were making. "Where's my Lady?"

"I could not find her, sir," Maggie replied, shaking her head sadly. She curtsied and hurried back to the safety of the hall and the duties that awaited her there. She also hated the pained look that had come over her Lord's face. It was obvious to her he cared very much about Lady Marion, and she was angry with herself she could not find Her Ladyship for Sir Robert.

Robin watched her go and grimaced. He could only imagine what was going through Marion's head now, what this must all look like to her. But he had a duty – to protect England from invaders, and from its own King's ineptitude and cruelty, apparently. He vowed he would return, though, and would properly woo Marion, as she deserved.

For now, though, the counsel at Barnsdale needed him, so he spun his mount, caught up with Will, Allan, and Little John, and they cantered out of Nottingham. Barnsdale wasn't too long a ride, but every minute they spent on the road was another minute the northern barons were using to stir up dissent amongst the English ranks, and time was of the essence now.

As they approached Barnsdale, Robin spotted a stone cross in the town center. Every town had one – including Nottingham – but this one's design pulled at his memory. He pulled up his mount under the eaves of the closest abandoned, burnt-out shop, swung down off his horse, and set the reins over the rail so the horse wouldn't wander off or be spooked away by the sounds of battle and men. That done, he turned and with weighty, measured steps approached the stone rood. The sounds of the barons and their Army of the North quickly faded as Robin strode closer to the stone cross. He sensed, more than heard, his three friends follow behind him. But he didn't dare take his eyes off of the proud, intricately carved statue in front of him.

His memory surged again. He could hear an innocent child's laughter. He knelt down halfway to the cross and put a hand to the ground. This earth held memories of its own – terrible memories of the cruelties of men. He looked up at the rood and saw not a pillar of stone, but a face looking back at him. His father's face as he was forced to kneel by the two knights who held him. His eyes seemed to search Robin's very soul.

Robin stood and approached the rood he saw clearly again in the present. Still he was aware of his friends behind him who did not dare to speak and interrupt this moment. Robin drew his sword, the words on the hilt seeming to burn hot in his hand. Using the pommel of the sword as a hammer he struck with purposeful blows one of the stones that formed the ring around the base of the cross. It took just a few well-placed blows to loosen the stone. He held the pommel in his right hand and guided the blade under the stone with his left. Using the sword as a lever, Robin pushed the stone up, turning it on its edge.

Sure enough, the words were there. Time, weather, and nature had gotten to them, stained them, smoothed their carved edges, but they were there. _Rise and rise again until lambs become lions._ He looked down at the stone beneath and brushed the dirt away. There, just as he had known there would be, was a child's tiny handprint. Had he really been that small? His fingers drifted to the other side of the stone and slipped into the man-sized handprint. This was the mark his father had made. His fingers fit perfectly inside the impression in the cement.

"This is where I was born," Robin murmured to his friends in explanation. He straightened slowly and slipped the sword back into its scabbard at his side.

"What does it mean?" Will Scarlet asked, reading the words Robin had exposed.

Robin looked into the middle distance, the last wisps of memory leaving his mind. "It means never give up," he explained to his friend. Without glancing back, or resetting the stone, Robin walked forward, to where the Army of the North had assembled on the burnt field of Barnsdale. His companions fell into step behind him.

"A king does not _bargain_ for the loyalty that every subject owes him!" King John was screaming. Robin made his way toward the platform the King was speaking from, where he spotted also William Marshal, and some other important-looking older men. "Without loyalty, there is no kingdom. There is nothing!" the King thundered.

"I'm here to speak for Sir Walter Loxley," Robin called. His voice was raised slightly, but what caught the attention of those around him was the force of his voice. It took his listeners by the ears and demanded they listen to what he had to say. He saw Marshal turn towards him hopefully, and King John studying Marshal's reaction to his presence there at last. Shouts of "Speak!" and "Let the man speak!" went up around him.

"Speak, if you must," the King said, his tone indicating he thought little of this man, yet another person with an opinion of how he should run his country, who thought he knew what a King knew.

"If you're trying to build for the future," Robin said, sweeping his gaze across the men closest to him, "you must set your foundations strong." The rabble of men had gone almost completely silent, listening to him. "The laws of this land enslave people to its King – a King who demands loyalty, but offers nothing in return." Ripples of murmuring were spreading through the crowd now. "Now I have marched from France to Palestine and back. And I _know_ : in tyranny lies only failure." He was suddenly reminded of Loop and the other village boys in the greenwood. The murmuring was growing louder, so Robin raised his voice further. "You build a country like you build a cathedral – from the ground up!" There were shouts of agreement around him. "Empower every man," Robin continued, sweeping his hand across the gathered company, "and you" he pointed at King John, "will gain strength."

King John appeared not like what he was hearing. "Hmm. Well, who could object to such reasonable words?" he mused, his voice also pitched so the crowd could hear.

Robin could sense the King needed more persuasion, needed to see how Robin's ideas would benefit His Majesty more specifically. "If Your Majesty were to offer justice," Robin began moving towards the platform with the assembly of powerful men on it. "Justice in the form of a charter of liberties," Robin continued, trusting his companions to follow him. "…allowing every man to forage for his hearth," he reached the platform and ascended it, "to be safe from conviction without cause," he turned to face the crowd, "or prison without charge," loud shots of approval from the crowd, "To work, eat, and live on the sweat of his own brow, and be as merry as he can," Robin saw a messenger whisper something in William Marshal's ear, "then that King," he turned to King John, "would be great. Not only would he receive the loyalty of his people, but their love as well."

"So what would you have?" King John asked, rubbing a gloved hand over his short, dark beard. "Hm? Castle for every man?"

"Every Englishman's home is his castle!" Robin replied, grinning. The crowd roared their approval. "What we would ask, Your Majesty, is liberty: liberty by law!"

"Your Majesty," Marshal interjected before King John could reply. "My Lords… the French fleet is in the Channel." He moved closer to the King and spoke quietly, directly to him. "Sire, you have a chance to unify your subjects high and low. It falls on your nod."

"I only have to nod?" King John said dismissively. He leaned down and whispered to Marshal, "I can do better than that." He straightened and let his gaze sweep the crowd. "I give my word that such a charter will be written. On my mother's life I swear it." The crowd once again roared its approval of these words, to which King John beamed and waved to them in return.

While King John was thus occupied, Marshal approached Robin to whisper the message his man had given him. "Godfrey makes for Nottingham," he told Robin gravely. "I must stay with the King. I will send Baldwin and Fitzrobert with you. We will meet again at the White Horse when you are finished." Robin nodded and made to leave. "Robin," Marshal said, staying him with a hand on his arm. "Your father was a great man. And you _are_ your father's son." Robin nodded his appreciation for Marshal's words then turned away quickly.

He bumped into Allan, Will, and Little John, who had kept close even in the crush of the large crowd. As they made their way back through the throng of men to where they had tied their horses, he filled them in on what Marshal had told him about the danger Nottingham was suddenly in.

"I really hate that man!" Will muttered as they navigated their way back to the horses.

With the crowd's attention centered on King John and Sir Marshal, they made quick time and found their horses easily. They mounted up, found Fitzrobert and Baldwin waiting for them with their additional troops, and set off for Nottingham as quickly as they could.

Marion had finally collected herself. She was upset by Robin's abandonment, sure. But just as she had after Robert left, she had picked herself up and gone back to work. Nottingham cared little of the worries and strife of a single person, be they serf or noble, and there was always work to be done. She did, however, take the time to press a cool cloth to her face to rid it of any evidence of tears there may have been.

Thus prepared, she had gone down into Nottingham town to help with the inspections of the storage facilities for the grain through the winter. For the last few years, there had been so little crop left over that all of the leftover had been stored in the pantry at Peper Harow. But now, thanks to Robin's gift, they would have plenty of food to see them through the cold months. However, they needed to make sure that no mice or other varmints were living in the storage buildings, and that the buildings were sturdy and weatherproof.

They had just finished when Marion stepped out into the open to take in some of the rare English sun that was shining that day. She was not so wrapped up in her troubles she couldn't appreciate the fine weather they were having. She was folding her apron when she glanced up and saw a small army riding towards Peper Harow through the fields. She looked at the front of the column but there was no grey horse. Had Robin switched horses?

"Maggie, who's at the house?" she asked, growing quickly concerned that she didn't spot Robin's straight back and proud posture amongst any of the war-band's leaders. And why would they be going to the great hall directly?

There was a great shout to her left, at the edge of town. "Long live the King!" she thought she made out those words. Another small war-band was riding into town. Actually, they were already in the town proper, and they weren't slowing down. What was going on? Marion could only stand, dumbfounded, as a knight on a dark horse bore down on her position. He carried a standard, but managed to direct his horse's path so he deliberately ran over a woman in the middle of the street who was trying to get away. Startled, but still not quite comprehending, Marion saw swarms of men in armor, the device on their shields foreign to her, bearing down on the town. One horseman leaned out of his saddle, his sword swinging, and savagely cut open a man's torso not thirty feet from her. Before she could react he was riding at her. By the grace of God, his swing, aimed right for her, caught only her hair, which had blown away from her body in a sudden breeze.

It quickly became apparent they were under attack. Old folk, women, and children were running madly through the streets, trying to escape but only managing to create more confusion and traffic. Everywhere Marion looked, men on horseback were trampling, slashing, chasing, and generally wreaking destruction on her town and her people.

At the far end of the street, Marion saw Friar Tuck slip inside the church. She hoped he had the good sense to grab his quarterstaff, which she knew him to be quite capable with, and try to get some of the more feeble to safety. Perhaps he could defend the church and claim sanctuary for people to hide there, though from the dishonorable way these knights were attacking, she doubted they would honor the sanctity of a church or its sanctuary.

Suddenly Marion was shoved hard from behind. She stumbled forward, caught off guard completely, and grunted, righting herself. She found herself being herded, along with a large group of others, towards the rood at the center of town that served as the crossroads. Marion found herself pushed right up against the stone monument, and began to climb. From her vantage point, she noted with grim satisfaction that the invaders had gone to the Sheriff's house as well, and was just in time to see one of the knights throw a lit torch at the Sheriff's house. She refocused on the people around her, trying to calm them as best she could, though she was close to complete panic herself. This was a time of distress, damn it all, and the people needed a leader, someone to direct them, and by God, it was going to be her.

She saw one man had managed to evade the mounted warriors and was running toward Peper Harow, calling Sir Walter's name. _Oh no_ , she thought. Walter would, she knew, immediately take up arms to defend his people and his estate, even though he was not only feeble but completely blind. He would surely be hurt, if not worse.

She had to trust Walter wouldn't do anything too foolish without her, and she once again put her clever mind to work trying to figure out a way to let the people know she would take care of them, and to cease their wild, animal panicking.

That wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Looking around, Marion saw that the soldiers not occupied with herding the terrified people together were busy helping themselves to anything they liked. Some were opening casks of wine, others were clearing the bakery shelves, emptying the coins from the hiding places in the shops, and some, she saw with utter disgust, were dragging poor young girls away, to do unspeakable horror to them, she had no doubt.

Suddenly their shepherds were moving them, over to the largest grain storage shed. Under the roof overhang she saw a long table had been set up, and men were seated at it, taking the coins people were handing over in the desperate hope that the invaders would take the coins and leave them alone.

"Next! Next! Come on!" one of the knights at the table shouted, gesturing for the next poor soul to step up and give away all their cash. Marion pushed her way forward, and the man happily focused on her, as was her intention. "Name?" he demanded.

"Loxley," Marion replied, chin held proudly. This man would not get the satisfaction of intimidating her. She wouldn't let him. She glanced furtively to either side. Other knights were taking the coins of many people at once. Damn, but they were efficient at their thieving business.

"Christian name?"

"Marion." The knight in front of her scratched her name into his book with a quill.

"Land?"

Marion saw one tall knight, his head shaved, leering at her. She glared at him defiantly as she responded to the question. "Five thousand acres," she spat.

The leering man was grinning now. " _Lady_ Marion Loxley?" he asked in sick glee.

Marion refused to back down. "I am," she stated clearly. The man didn't say anything, merely held up his hand and gestured for her to follow him around to the other side of the table. She refused to go anywhere with him. He elbowed another knight next to him and jerked his chin at her, indicating for the other man to seize her and force her to follow him. The other knight happily did so, throwing her into the open door of another empty storage shed that his leader had indicated. Marion stumbled inside, righted herself, and whirled around to try to run past them, but the door was slammed in her face before she could take a single step. She knew it was futile, but she still yanked on the door's handle – it was indeed locked against her.

Marion was not one to be idle. She found a hole in the wall – fleetingly she thought she ought to note it in her memory so they could fix it after this nightmare was over – and put her eye to it, trying to look out. Her vision was severely limited, but she was able to see many invaders herding townspeople into the empty storage sheds, to the second floor in particular if the building had one.

There was nothing she could do to help her people while she remained trapped in this shed here. She looked about. The place was pretty much empty – there was certainly nothing she could use as a weapon to fend off her attacker when he came for her. Oh, yes, she knew what he wanted from her. She was not naïve. She needed to be ready to fight for her life. To buy herself time, she went to the far side of the structure, where the shadows were thick, and waited. She didn't have to wait long. The man with the shaven head pushed the door open and entered, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"Où es-tu?" he called. Marion didn't respond. "Venez ici," he crooned. Marion sidled out from her hiding place amongst the shadows. "Ah," he said as she stepped into the light streaking in from the spaces between the slats of the wall. "No one should have four thousand acres."

" _Five_ thousand acres," Marion said, almost speaking over him. She would not let him see any fear. She would be the aggressor if she had to be.

The Frenchman smirked and did not reply. He simply undid the buckle holding up his sword belt with one hand and let the whole contraption drop straight to the floor, his sword clinking metallically.

Marion knew the best defense was simply to run. This building had a rear door that she hadn't had time to check for being locked. As soon as the Frenchman's belt hit the floor she whirled and pushed against the door with everything she had. It didn't budge. And worse, she was now trapped against a wall and the Frenchman was coming towards her, pulling his gloves off and throwing them casually to the ground, as if he had all the time in the world to do whatever he wanted to her.

She stilled and watched him approach. When he was inches from her she tried to dart past him but he blocked her and she leaned heavily against the locked doors that had let her down. There was a scream from outside and a body was slammed into the wall at her back from the other side, jolting her.

The Frenchman leaned down and cooed, "Relâcher," his hot, stinking breath wafting into her face and making her want to gag. His dirty hand descended on her head, touching her hair, covering her eye, feeling the smoothness of her skin. She wanted nothing more than to throw him off, but she knew she had to find the perfect moment. With his hand he held her head in place and he leaned forward, his large nose skimming her throat, as he inhaled her scent, from her collarbones to her temple, in an obscene imitation of a lover's gesture. She thought she was going to be sick, and swallowed thickly. Patience… the right moment…

From outside she could hear hammers driving in nails, but to what purpose, she could not guess. A minute later, there was mass screaming. She thought she smelled wood burning. She could no longer afford to be patient. She needed to make her opportunity.

Maintaining eye contact with the Frenchman, Marion leaned down. She grabbed the skirt of her dress just above the ankle and slowly eased the hem of her skirts up. As her hand slowly passed the top of her boot, she made a sly grab for the small knife she always kept there. This was it. This was her only hope now. She tried to use her right hand to hide the knife from her captor as much as possible, but she almost needn't have worried. His eyes were glued to the creamy whiteness of her exposed leg. She held the knife in her right hand and managed to get it all the way up to her hip. Seeing the Frenchman's fascination, she left her skirt hiked up and began a prayer for strength and guidance.

The Frenchman blinked as if stunned that she hid such treasure. He knelt down in front of her almost reverently and leaned toward her. Marion's breathing sped up, her heart racing. She risked letting go of her skirt with her left hand and placed it on her attacker's bald head. He thought she meant to guide him to her leg, and he leaned in further, pressing a kiss to the inside of her right knee.

With a sob, Marion found her moment. Her hand on his head kept him still and gave her aim. She lunged forward and sank her knife all the way to the hilt through the man's spine from behind. He cried out in pain and surprise as Marion backed away as far as the locked door would allow and shook her skirts back down to decency. She watched as the Frenchman reached one arm back and before he could grasp the handle and pull the knife out, she kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling to the floor to die in a pool of his own blood. She took just a moment for herself, to gather her wits again. Despite the horrible thing she had been forced to do, and despite the fact that she had been under such a personal attack, her people were still out there, needing her, screaming still.

She needed to get out of this storage shed. As far as she knew, there were only the two doors, and both were locked. Suddenly a patch of sunlight appeared on the floor, and grew larger. She looked up and saw a dirty, scrawny arm reach through and gesture her over. "Lady Marion!" Loop hissed down at her. The attackers had not counted on the village boys of Sherwood!

She had the presence of mind to pick up the Frenchman's sword from his dropped belt before she raced over and climbed onto a barrel, reaching for the hand waving down at her to hurry. She passed the sword up first. The space in the thatched roof was made larger and several boys pulled her up and out onto the roof. They crawled up to the top part of the thatch to get the best view and assess the situation down below.

Another shaved knight was shouting orders to his men in French, something about the enemy coming to attack. That could only mean one thing – Robin was on his way. Thus heartened, she urged the boys down to the ground with her. Friar Tuck had also found and joined them.

She and the boys emerged onto the street just in time to see Robin thunder by on his grey destrier, laying about him with his sword to deadly effect, letting out a bloodcurdling battle cry. She couldn't help it – her heart swelled with pride. He barely glanced at her as he leaned over, never stopping, and sliced an attacker from hip to shoulder and kept going.

"Follow me!" she cried, and took off after him, pulling the sword from its scabbard. By God, they were the ones in charge of this town. She and her husband would defend Nottingham – and its people – until their dying breaths!

Robin could only pray that he wasn't too late as they approached Nottingham at breakneck speed. He wished the little army would move faster, but it took time to move that many men and ready them to attack with the greatest force, and he knew he needed their numbers if he was going to rescue Nottingham from its invaders. His grey destrier pranced and circled and halted at the front of the charge.

"Baldwin! Fitzrobert!" Robin called over to the other barons. "Take the southern flank and circle in from the west." Robin spun his excited horse to his friends. "Will and Allan, get on the rooftops and pick your targets." His instructions given, Robin made a circling gesture and whistled to his men, urging his horse forward, leading the charge to take back Nottingham.

He and his men rode straight through the fields with their carefully tilled straight lines. If they survived this day, there would be time to fix it later. He could see what appeared to be the leader, dressed in chainmail and riding a black horse, gathering his troops in the center of town and directing them to form some sort of defensive formation. Robin urged his horse faster.

The leader of the invaders apparently did not fight honorably, as once his knights were in position, he wheeled his horse and fled out the far side of town. Robin yelled his frustration, which quickly turned into a battle cry, as he had now reached the edge of town and began slashing at the soldiers throwing themselves at him, trying to unseat him from his mount. As he flashed by he saw Marion's tall, willowy figure beside the road with Friar Tuck and Loop. He had time to say a quick thanks to God that she was alright before his mind resettled on the task at hand.

Robin had never led troops into hand-to-hand combat before. He'd been the unspoken leader of the archers in King Richard's army, but that was an entirely different sort of fighting. This was close quarters, swords flashing all around in the sunlight were distracting as they caught his eye, and he had to focus not only on killing whoever ran at him with a weapon, but also controlling his horse.

Though he had no experience at such an attack, he led the way. To his right, he saw Will and Allan jump from their horses onto the buildings and climb up, seeking the high ground that would give their bows their lethal advantage. On his left, Little John used the momentum of his horse to swing off the still-galloping animal and, his giant poleaxe in hand, take out three enemy soldiers at once. Robin himself got down to the dirty work of slashing any enemy foolish enough to try to get close.

Marion knew she had to work quickly. Robin, his friends, and several allies he had apparently brought were busy cleaning up the streets of invaders. However, the smell of burning wood was still heavy in the air and ugly, black smoke was emanating from several buildings. In a single glance she realized what the hammering had been – the bastard invaders had locked her people up in buildings and then set the buildings on fire. She hadn't realized she could hate another person so much, but this was too much. These people were innocent!

She took up the Frenchman's sword and made her way to the closest building. When an enemy knight raised his sword, she paused, dropped the skirts she had picked up to give her legs running room, and swung at his exposed ribs with all her might. She felt the sword jerk in her hands as her blow struck her target and the man went down. She pulled the blade free and kept running.

Up the stairs she climbed of the two-story storage shed. The people were trapped here, and the fire was burning, working its way up to them from the first floor. She jabbed the sword point down behind the crossbar that had been nailed over the door and started pulling as hard as she could. Behind her, Loop ran past to the window, where someone was holding their bundled-up newborn out, trying to save whatever lives they could.

Marion pulled and pulled at the sword until finally, the boards came free. She swung the doors opened and started choking on the smoke that billowed out. She quickly stepped to the side and started directing the freed peasants down the stairs and away from the fighting in the streets of the town. She glanced to the building next door and saw Friar Tuck had done the same as she, unbarring the doors, throwing them open, and then leading the people who had been trapped down to safety.

"Loop, gather your boys, get these people into Sherwood, hide them!" she ordered.

Loop didn't waste time responding, simply started running, letting off a series of animal calls that hopefully meant something to the boys he was in charge of. Marion continued directing people down the stairs, telling them it would be alright, they were safe now, they were doing fine, follow the boys, get to Sherwood…

As he fought with his sword, Robin heard the distinctive whine of arrows flying and the thud as they found their marks. Will and Allan were probably the two best archers from Richard's army, after him, of course. Their arrows were having quite the devastating effect on the enemy, which Robin was glad for. He was unused to the sword as his primary weapon and longed for the archer's vantage, so he could see the full picture of the battle. He hated being down here, waiting for an enemy soldier to reveal himself before being able to attack. It felt… passive.

John was doing his best to put a dent in the enemy's numbers as well – literally. He was like a one-man whirling dervish with that poleaxe of his. Robin saw an enemy riding hard at John's back as John was finishing off his latest opponent.

"John, down!" Robin yelled. Thankfully, eyes huge, John didn't stop to ask why, simply bent his knees in a low squat. Robin galloped right past him, putting a sword in the middle of the man's chest who had been about to attack John from behind. Robin kept going and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Will leap from one building to the upper platform of another and kick the enemy soldier there to the ground.

Robin wheeled his horse around. He needed a weapon – his sword was still buried in the chest of the man attacking John. As Robin spun about, he saw John with his poleaxe in one hand and – miracle of miracles – the sword Robin had lost in the other.

"Sword!" Robin called. John glanced over and tossed the sword to Robin, who caught it by the pommel out of the air. Together, down on ground level, Robin, John, and even Will, still managing to do quite a bit of damage with arrows held in his hands and some well-placed kicks, fought their way through to the center of town, where Baldwin's and Fitzrobert's men had clustered the enemy soldiers together. At least, the ones still breathing, who had either been overpowered or were naturally cowardly and laid down their arms.

"Arrête! Arrête!" Robin yelled, riding into the town center. "Arrêter, ou il est mort pour vous tous!"

"Get down, you bastard French dogs!" Baldwin's commander yelled, helping Robin circle the men so that they all knelt around the central cross of town. Robin halted his horse and swung down to the ground. With his sword, he studied the faces of several prisoners, using his blade to raise their chins up to him and moving on to the next. Finally, he found one that had the look of cowardice and self-preservation about him.

"Qui est votre officier?" Robin asked the man, his sword's point resting in the soft flesh under his chin, unprotected by his helm. The man stared at Robin with huge eyes and barely jerked his head to the left, indicating the man next to him. Robin strode over to the other man, whose head was without a helm and who had a large, bloody gash on his scrawny cheek. Robin used his sword to push the man backwards onto his haunches.

"Où Philip atterrir?" he asked the man. The officer glared up at him insolently. "Où Philip atterrir?!" Robin shouted again. He didn't have time for this. He grabbed the man by the front of his tabard and threw him towards the door of the building. Little John, knowing what Robin was about to do, stepped forward without prompting and drove nails through the man's chainmail so that his arms were pinned out crossways from his body. As Little John worked, Robin grabbed his bow and one of the arrows from the quiver attached to his saddle.

The man refused to make eye contact and tried half-heartedly to jerk his arms free. Robin kept his face stonily blank and stepped in front of the man, about twenty paces away. His face still giving away nothing, he brought his bow up, drew back, and smoothly released. The arrow buried itself in the wood less than an inch from the man's neck, as Robin had intended.

"Where will King Philip land, and when?" Robin asked, turning to accept the arrow Allan was holding out to him from his own supply. Robin accepted the arrow and faced the French officer. The man did not reply. Robin brought his bow up, drew back, took his aim, and released. This time, the arrow landed in the center of the man's right hand. The officer immediately screamed and jerked in pain. Robin couldn't care less. He accepted another arrow from Allan, who kept his head bowed. He knew this was necessary, but he hated the excessive violence.

"This is my last arrow," Robin warned the officer, bringing his bow up for the third and last time.

The French officer looked into Robin's eyes down the length of the arrow's shaft and cried, "Dungeness!" He gulped air. Robin lowered his bow. "Dungeness. Two days." Robin studied the man and knew he was telling the truth. He un-nocked the arrow and handed it and his bow to Allan.

"There we have it," he said, turning to Lord Baldwin. "We have two days." Robin looked up and saw Marion walking away. He frowned.

Marion had uneasily joined the crowd just as Robin had grabbed the French officer and thrown him toward the door. She watched, a sick feeling still roiling through her stomach, as Robin fired at the bound man, first deliberately missing, then hitting him in one of the most painful locations on the body. She winced when the man yelled. It sounded just like the yell the Frenchman had made…

She turned away in time to see a cart pull up, drawn by Goliath, their plow-horse. Confused, she walked over to see what that business was about.

Before she had taken half a dozen steps, Stephen and another manservant swung down from the cart. Marion's stomach gave another uncomfortable roll. She stopped as the two men approached. Stephen held out a sword in a scabbard, the belt wrapped around the protected blade. She didn't need to ask who it belonged to. She knew. She accepted the blade from him, nodding grimly, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. So… he had done something foolish and noble after all, the old codger.

Stephen met her eyes, asking a silent question. She nodded imperceptibly. She couldn't…

Suddenly he was there. She turned around, and Robin was there. He smelled awful, his armor was smeared with the gore of battle, and she had just witnessed him torture answers he wanted from a prisoner. She looked into his eyes, though, and saw the tenderness there. He, too, realized what the sword meant, realized that Walter was gone. She knew this man. He probably blamed himself for not getting back to Nottingham in time to save him. But more than that, was his concern… for her. He had not grown up with a father, but he understood what Walter had meant to her, how Walter had been there for her when his own son abandoned them to play soldier, had been there for her as year after year, the taxes increased and the crop yield decreased. Always, he had been there, and now he was gone forever…

She couldn't meet Robin's eyes anymore. She studied the sword she held in her hands in disbelief. She saw in her peripheral vision Robin step towards her and couldn't do it anymore. She couldn't be strong. She admitted to herself that she needed to borrow some of Robin's apparent strength. So when he stepped toward her, she raised the sword to him, leaned in, and rested her head on his shoulder and began weeping softly. There was nothing else she could do, in that moment.

Robin was simply glad she was letting him in in this deeply tragic and emotional moment, when he knew she so easily could have chosen to push him away. She put her head down on his shoulder and though many layers of fabric and metal separated her from his skin, he felt like he could feel her silent tears dripping down his skin.

He brought his hand up to stroke her hair, mindless to the dirt that covered him. He turned his head slightly to place a gentle kiss to her temple and just held her while she let her emotions run free, for once. He closed his eyes. He, too, needed to grieve for Walter, who had become like his father in the short time he had known the old man. They had two days before King Philip of France was to land in Dungeness. They had two days, slightly less, then, to grieve together for their lost loved one.

Before they both lost it completely in front of several armies from two countries, Robin took the sword, Walter's sword, out of Marion's hands, tucked her beneath his arm, and escorted her to the cart. He handed her up to the driver's seat and then ascended behind her. He accepted the reins from Stephen, turned the cart in the cramped street, and drove for Peper Harow.

He parked in the deserted courtyard. At his whistle, a stable boy emerged from the shadows. "See to the horse, lad, if you would," Robin told him. The stable lad stared up at him with eyes the size of saucers, but nodded that he understood the order, and grabbed the giant horse's reins. Robin turned next to Marion, who was easing her way down out of the tall cart. Instead, Robin caught her and carried her bridal style into the great hall, and did not stop until he reached the door to the washroom where he had first gone the very first night he had come to Nottingham.

Inside, he undressed Marion in silence while she stood still, only moving when he couldn't figure out the lacings on parts of her garments. Finally she stood completely naked before him. She moved forward and made quick work of his tabard and chainmail, an expert at the various lacings now. Both of them bare, they worked together to haul buckets of hot water from the giant cauldron that hung over the fire and dumping them into the even larger wooden tub. When the tub was not quite three-quarters of the way full, Robin handed Marion up into the water and quickly followed.

Since Marion still seemed stunned and unresponsive, Robin set to work with the rose-scented soap and a cloth, bathing Marion's creamy white skin with as much tender care as ineptitude. When she looked mostly clean, he set about on himself, trying to get all the blood that had dribbled through his armor to his skin. Thankfully, not much had gotten through that far. Most of it was on his arms, hands, and face. He scrubbed at his skin as best he could and then dunked beneath the water, shaking his head and causing ripples.

He surfaced again and took a deep, calming breath. Now that the work of bathing was over, he focused on Marion. She was starting to shiver, though the water was still quite warm. He reached out for her hand and drew her gently to him through the water. He put his arms around her and there they stayed, she safely in the circle of his arms, the both of them enveloped by the steam, heat, and warm water.

Robin wasn't sure how long they were in there for – all he really knew was that his fingers had wrinkled from the prolonged soak. The water was cool though the room still warm when Marion pulled back and gazed up at him.

"Thank you," she said. Robin raised his hands from where they had fallen into the water and held her neck gently between his palms, his thumbs reaching up to wipe the last stray tear from her cheek.

"We have both lost good men and women today," he said. "But I think we will miss Walter more dearly than any other. We will give him the most fitting ceremony we can."

"Yes, of course," Marion replied. She gave him a weak grin. "He told me he didn't want to be buried, though."

"Then we won't bury him," Robin agreed easily.

Marion nodded and then stepped away from him, moving to the side of the tub and – still graceful as ever, Robin thought – swung one pale leg over the side and then the other. He appreciated that she was not being shy with him, and though she did not rush to hide her nakedness, she did pull on a spare cotton dress that had been laying on the sideboard. Over it she wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, and then waited for him.

Robin levered himself out of the tub as well and pulled on the trousers and plain cotton shirt Marion passed to him. Thus washed and dressed, they walked together, though not touching, to Marion's bedchamber. Once inside, Marion locked the door, pulled down the bedding, and they crawled beneath the blanket.

Robin lay on his side, Marion curled towards him, her head tucked under his chin as if they were made to fit together. They were still for a minute, then Marion slowly raised her head. She studied Robin as he watched her, waiting for her to determine what would happen next. He was determined to be there for her, no matter what she needed.

Marion pressed up and planted a series of little kisses, first on Robin's chin, then creating a small path up to the corner of his mouth. She hesitated and then pressed her mouth against his warm lips once, then again, lingering slightly before pulling back. She noticed his eyes were closed. She reached down for the hem of his shirt and tugged it upwards.

"Marion," he said, his eyes flying open. His hands covered hers, stilling their tugging movement. He studied her face.

"Don't you want me to?" she asked, her voice whisper soft.

"Yes, I do," Robin admitted. "But I think we need to let our grief run its course first," he explained. "There will be plenty of time for anything we want after we take care of our lost loved ones, and settle Nottingham's affairs, don't you think?"

Marion couldn't believe what she was hearing. A single tear escaped and slid down her cheek, which she brushed aside. She kissed Robin once more before resettling herself into the crook of his body. She fit perfectly against him, and just like before, he slipped one arm around her waist and pulled her close, where she felt both safe and warm.

"Robin," she whispered.

"Mmm," he replied.

"I want to tell you what happened while you were gone," Marion admitted. She could feel shame heating her cheeks, but she wasn't facing him, and he was being so understanding about everything else that was going on, she felt like she needed to tell him, to confess almost.

"Alright," Robin agreed.

And so she slowly told him everything that had happened to her that day, starting all the way back to admitting she had hidden from Maggie when she came searching for her. Robin felt it safe to smile at that confession, as she couldn't see his face. She continued on to how she had stayed in her room for some time, angry with him… how she finally quit feeling sorry for herself and went down to help with the harvest preparations in town… the arrival of the French marauders and the terror she had felt and her near-miss with the first soldier who had swung a sword at her and only sliced at her hair. She told him about being rounded up like sheep in the center of town and the phony tax collector and the Frenchman who had singled her out. As she told him of her encounter with the French pig she felt Robin's arm tighten about her waist. He was immensely sorry he hadn't been there to protect her, but didn't say anything, letting her get out in the open what she felt she had to tell him. She explained how Loop and the other village boys had rescued them, and instructed Robin that he would need to come up with a suitable reward for all of the boys, for if it had not been for them, she didn't know if they would have saved anyone from town, let alone she herself. He showed his agreement by placing a kiss along her exposed shoulder. She shuddered, a thrill chasing through her, but she kept going. She described how he had looked to her as he charged into town and into battle, like her very own avenging angel come to save them. She had taken up her sword to free the townspeople while he and the soldiers set about clearing out the French.

"I think I killed a man, actually," she admitted thoughtfully.

"The man was in need of killing either way," Robin sighed. "I would suggest letting Friar Tuck handle that affair. Keep going. What did you do after you freed the people from the storage sheds?"

She had told Loop to round up his boys and get the townspeople out of the way of the fighting by hiding in Sherwood, she explained. By that time, the battle was essentially over. She saw to it that the last of the townsfolk had gone with Loop and the boys, then headed for the town center, where the French prisoners had been gathered together.

"You know the rest," she finished, yawning.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am for what happened today," Robin said. "You were very brave."

"Well, someone had to be," Marion quipped half-heartedly.

"Aye, but you are an entirely singular, exquisite creature," Robin said, nuzzling her shoulder. "I thank God every day that he sent my path to cross yours, you know."

"Do you now," Marion said, smiling.

"God's truth," Robin assured her.

"I'm grateful for you as well, Robin Longstride," Marion said, serious again. "Walter was right: you returned life to us here in Nottingham." She paused. "I hope you will stay, when all of this is finished."

"And where else would I go, hm? My life is here, Marion. I'll join King John against the French fleet, but as soon as that's done, I'm coming home. Now, go to sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow."

Marion sighed and snuggled deeper into the mattress, and closer to the wonderful man beside her. He had just called Nottingham home. Athena could borrow him – but he belonged to her.

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You made it to the end of the big chapter! Congratulations! And, we all made it safely through the battle, assault, torture, and nude scenes. Again, apologies for my horrendous and quite possibly inaccurate French. Please comment/review with suggestions for improvement there, and especially for how *delicate matters* were handled - I'm writing this mostly as a writing exercise for myself, with the goal of improving, clarifying, smoothing, and making more engaging my writing. This chapter has a lot of stuff that could use some good ole TLC - tender loving comments/reviews. Thanks!


	8. 8: The Funeral

**Author's Note** : While a lot of important things happen in this chapter, plot-wise, it's one of (if not the most) the shortest chapters - a nice reprieve after the real campaign that was the last chapter.

 **WARNING***WARNING***WARNING** : character death and a funeral. It's canon, guys - sorry.

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Robin awoke before Marion did. In the pre-dawn he lay beside her, arm still protectively across her middle, holding her close. They needed to make arrangements for Walter today, and then immediately he needed to begin preparing to meet the French fleet. Marion stirred beside him.

"Is is morning?" she asked, voice still rough from sleep.

"Not quite dawn," Robin replied. Marion rolled over to face him.

"I don't know how I'm going to get through today," she admitted.

"We will," Robin said with more confidence than he truly felt. "We always seem to."

When the sun was more directly shining through the bedchamber window they slipped out from beneath the covers and got dressed for the day. Walter had told Marion that he did not want a somber funeral, that the point of a funeral was to celebrate someone's life, and so he had asked that she wear joyful colors when he died, and not shroud herself away in black. While digging in her clothes chest, Marion came across the dress she had married Robert in. It was a beautiful garment, all white and cream with delicate lace at the neckline. She smiled, remembering how brimming with joy she had been on that day, so many years ago – the happiest she had been in her whole life, she had thought then. She pulled the gown out of the chest. There would be no better way to honor Walter's wishes than that.

Though they had two days until the fleet arrived in the channel, it took an army time to organize and mobilize itself, Robin knew. The more time he could spend with the body of the army, helping to arrange, plan, and coordinate, the better. In order to do that, he would have to leave straightaway after the funeral. He hated to do it, but thought Walter would understand. So he dressed in his armor, which one of the house servants had thoughtfully polished for him and brought to the bedchamber sometime in the night from where he'd left it in the washroom. He pulled on clean clothes underneath, and then the armor. With a smile, Marion stepped forward to assist him with the lacings.

"You could be my squire at this rate," Robin noted.

"I've certainly seen more battle than some," Marion agreed, tying off the last of the lacings. She came around in front of him again and looked up into his eyes. "Go on down to breakfast. I'll be a moment getting ready."

"Are you sure you don't need any help?"

Marion laughed. "To a man who can't do his own lacings, I should trust mine? I'll be alright." She picked up her dress from where she had draped it across the bed and went over to the partition set in the corner. Just before slipping behind it she tossed Robin a saucy grin and disappeared from view.

Robin went downstairs. He wasn't hungry, but knew as well as any soldier that food was scarce when the army was on the move, so he forced himself to choke down some bread and fruit. Besides, he had to wait for Marion before going out to the field where the menservants of the house had prepared Walter's funeral arrangements.

Marion descended the stairs in a swirl of white. Robin turned and watched her graceful entrance. She looked like an angel coming down from Heaven, he thought, but kept that observation to himself. He offered Marion one of the apples from the bowl, but she shook her head no. Not able himself to eat any more, he offered her his elbow, and they departed Peper Harow for the church.

Friar Tuck was on the front steps of the church, and what appeared to be every living man, woman, and child left in Nottingham clustered before him, standing room only. The crowd parted down the middle to let the Loxleys through to the front. Marion fought down her tears at the mutual show of respect the people had for Walter's memory. She and Robin went down the aisle they made and stood in the front row. Somehow, Robin's men found him and stood in a line on his other side to pay their respects as well. Friar Tuck gave a fine sermon on the merits of bravery and kindness, then Robin and his men stepped forward.

Walter had been dressed in his finest – white, as well, Marion noted with a watery smile. She walked alongside the woven casket as Robin and his men lifted the box, a man on each corner, and they led the procession to the field where grass kindling for a bonfire had been heaped. The men gently lowered Walter in his basket on top of the chest-high pile and backed away, allowing Marion a few moments with Walter alone.

Like a Viking warrior of old, Walter had asked to be sent off with his sword, which Marion made sure he had in his hands. She tucked an extra spring of wildflowers – also white – next to the sword. She almost laughed – he had died like a Viking, falling in glorious battle. She gazed at the wizened old face one last time, remembering the times Walter had been there for her, like a father she had not had growing up. "Goodbye, Walter," she said, though no sound escaped her lips as they moved. Before she broke down completely, she clambered off the pile. She made her way to where Robin stood, his back straight as a lance, his face blank and solemn.

As soon as she moved away, the menservants who had served Sir Walter Loxley closest, a couple of them for their entire lives, moved forward with torches in their hands. When she was clear of the kindling they laid their torches to the dry grass, at each of the four corners. The kindling ignited and the flames spread rapidly in a glorious burst, just as Walter had wanted. The crowd watched the fire burn steadily, then they began to leave, first in groups of just two or three, then in larger groups, until it was just Robin and his men, Marion, and Friar Tuck.

It was time for Robin to go. He pulled Marion's hand through the crook of his arm and walked with her over to where his horse was saddled and waiting. At his move, his men moved off as well, to double-check their tack and provisions, and give him a moment of privacy. They reached the horse's side and Marion pulled her hand away. She turned and looked at the pyre while Robin made some adjustments to the tack.

"Once before I said goodbye to a man going to war," she said quietly, turning back to Robin. "He never came back." And there it was – her greatest fear, laid out for him to see her in all her vulnerability, the biggest show of trust she could think to give him.

Robin dropped the strap he'd been adjusting to study her. He knew what she was meaning. He stepped toward her. "Ask me nicely."

Marion found her first smile. It was going to be okay. He was going to survive and come back to her. He wasn't going to leave her, and he was, after this, going to be through with war. She stepped into him, so naturally it was as if she'd been doing it for years, and kissed him square on the mouth. It was sweet, it was giving, and it was a promise that she would be waiting for him upon his return. When she leaned back, she grinned at the stunned expression on Robin's face and had to kiss him again – this time, more playfully, just a brief peck on the lips.

He knew what she was playing at. He gave her a half-grin and swung onto his horse. The sooner he got to the coast and defeated the French, the sooner he could get back to Nottingham and finish what he and Marion had started. He collected up his reins, the grey destrier dancing under him in anticipation. He held the horse in check and looked down at Marion, who was staring up at him with shining, trusting eyes. "I love you, Marion," he said. He nudged his horse and caught up with his men who were waiting for him a short distance away.

Robin didn't even take the time to pause. Once he was sure his men had turned and were following, he urged the horse up into a ground-eating, rocking-horse canter, and heard his friends keep pace easily behind him. With a sound akin to thunder, he heard Fitzrobert's and Baldwin's men also turn and fall into their place behind him. Together, they headed for the coast.

Marion watched Robin and the other men leave for war. Tuck approached her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"He'll come back," Tuck said reassuringly. "Not to worry."

"Tuck," Marion replied thoughtfully, "There's something I will need your assistance with."

"I'll help in any way I can, my Lady," Tuck replied cheerfully.

"Excellent," Marion said, turning and heading for Peper Harow. "Find Loop. I'll need him, too. It's time to let the runaways of Sherwood get their first taste of real battle."

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Thanks for staying with the story! I still love comments and reviews *unsubtly winks awkwardly*


	9. 9: Battle on the Beach

**Author's Note** : Hey all, and welcome to the penultimate chapter! HEADS-UP: THIS IS THE BATTLE AT THE ENGLISH CHANNEL. So, blood, fighting, war - but just like last time, not horrendously explicit. ALSO ANOTHER CHARACTER DIES - still canon. Okay. Mwah. Keep reading. You'll do great.

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A day and a half of hard riding found Robin and the men he led at the White Horse: a stone structure built into the side of the hill, visible most clearly from far away. Robin didn't have time to marvel at the feat of stone masonry. As soon as he spotted Marshal with the other half of the English army (and King John), he pressed onward, joining up into one massive group of men at arms.

"What news of Walter and Nottingham?" Marshal asked, riding out to meet Robin alone.

"Sir Walter is dead," Robin replied, face stony. "Godfrey's hand."

Before Marshal could express his sorrow or sympathy, King John rode up to them, interrupting. "Gentlemen, we got to war," he announced loudly, circling the other two men. "It is my first time. I shall lead. Ya! Forward!" he said, urging his black destrier forward, up the middle between the two halves of the English army. Tellingly enough, none of the gathered men moved. Robin and Marshal glanced at each other, then followed after the King. The soldiers fell in quickly behind the real leaders.

Now united as one English army, they rode hard for the coast, where the French fleet was in the process of landing. Above the beach was a sheer cliff that ran parallel to the water's edge. Men on horses were moving around on the sand, waiting to assist the approaching French boats to unload their crews of men and horses. Presiding over all was Godfrey.

Robin, Marshal, King John, and the northern barons cantered easily up to the fork in the path. To the right would lead them down to the beach; to the left, up along the clifftop. Here they paused. Marshal, King John, and Robin were in the lead.

"That's a lot of French," King John observed dubiously, watching as they stormed the beach. "What's to be done?"

Robin glanced over at Marshal. "Archers to the clifftop."

"Cavalry to the beach," Marshal agreed. "We'll await you there." Turning to his right, Marshal called, "With me!" and began leading the mounted soldiers on the right-hand path, towards the beach.

"Archers!" Robin rallied his men and led them off on the left-hand path to the clifftop.

King John awkwardly sat his horse in the middle. "Excellent plan," he said, to no one in particular. No one was listening anyway, as the men efficiently divided themselves between the two commanders as per their weapon of choice and prepared themselves for battle. King John fell in with the group following Marshal and belatedly headed for the beach.

On the top of the cliff, Robin had all the archers dismount and spread out in a long line, all along the top of the cliff. He anxiously rode up and down the line as the men drew a number of arrows from their quivers in preparation. Down below, Robin spotted Godfrey and had to fight back the curtain of red that threatened his vision. Off to the side, he saw Marshal lining up the horsemen for the first, impactful charge.

On the far side of the line, Robin cantered back to the starting point of the line of archers. "Raise arrows! Raise arrows!" he shouted, the men picking up the call and all pulling their nocked arrows back, bows raised up to arc over to the beach down below. The last man in the line tossed Robin a war hammer, which he grabbed easily. "Ready!"

When Robin was sure all the men had their bows ready, he sent out the command: "Release!" The shouted command was again passed down the line, and a hail of deadly missiles was sent flying to the beach, onto the heads of the unsuspecting French soldiers, whose attention was focused on the cavalry charge being prepared.

The arrows thudded down in a menacingly buzzing hailstorm. French soldiers all over the beach dropped dead, their bodies riddled with arrows sticking out of them like pin cushions. Some of the arrows even made it all the way to the water, catching soldiers as they tried to swim and wade to the shore. Some, merely injured, succumbed to the water itself.

"Release!" Robin shouted, sending another deadly volley of arrows down to the beach. The French were effectively now trying to defend themselves on two fronts – the cavalry in front and archers on the right flank – while also trying to just make it to the beach from their boats.

With the element of surprise gone, Robin sent the order for half the archers to remount and led them down the other path to join up with the main body of the army for the charge. It was no good keeping all the archers where they were, as once the two armies clashed, the archers could just as easily hit one of their own men as one of the enemy in the sort of big, wild volleys they'd been sending. The small, professionally trained group of archers could pick their targets more carefully, and avoid damage by accident. Robin cantered steadily up ahead, joining the first rank of the charge, the ones who would hit the line of French soldiers who were digging in with their spears a ways down the sand.

Down a smaller path rode a lone knight on a dark horse, leading a ragtag group of dirty boys on stocky, shaggy ponies. The lone knight pulled up his horse a couple of lengths ahead of the English army and waited for a commander to approach. Robin urged his horse faster to meet with the mysterious stranger. When he was close, he saw the knight push up his visor and squint at him.

"For the love of God, Marion!" he shouted, surprised. She just watched him coolly. He had to admit, after the initial first shock of seeing her dressed in what he assumed was Walter's chainmail, he was not at all surprised to see her. She was proud, fiery, and loyal – of course she would lead a renegade band of Nottingham boys to help defend their home. He fell in love with her even more right then. "Loxley!" he shouted at her as his horse danced beneath him. He quieted the horse and sidled closer. "Circle your troops, and _then_ join the charge."

In response, Marion firmly pulled down her visor and spun around to go gather her 'troops.' "With me!" she ordered, catching their attention and then turning, waiting for her chance to join the fray.

By now, the front line of the cavalry charge had caught up to them. Robin easily turned his mount and joined the rank, and together they turned the horses loose. A familiar, menacing buzz, like a disturbed hornet's nest, filled the air, and another flight of arrows rained death on the French. The horses, hearing the sound and feeling the urging of their riders, leapt forward into flat-out galloping. Robin, in the front on the King's horse, leaned forward, pushing his horse, the war hammer held out still in his right hand, ready to crush enemy skulls with the momentum of the hammer's weight and the horse's speed. Another rain of arrows came buzzing to land amongst the French ranks.

"England!" Robin shouted his war cry. In answer, a wordless shout rose up from the rank of horsemen behind him, adding to the symphony of battle.

Suddenly they were there. His horse, trained for battle, unflinchingly ran over and trampled the French soldiers too slow or too stubborn to duck for cover, while Robin leaned out of the saddle and swung the war hammer at any French helmets he saw.

The beach quickly descended into chaos, as most battles were. Robin was no stranger to the madness, though usually, he would have been stationed with the other archers, picking off his targets. This was more personal, and, as he continued swinging the hammer, more exhausting. Around him, soldiers continued to fall, both English and French. Occasionally, Robin's target fell before him with an arrow in his back. Men were being dragged from their horses and trampled in the confusion.

Seeing that the men had punched right through the French defensive line, Marion raised her sword and kicked her horse forward, screaming "Forward!" The boys of Sherwood kicked their wily little ponies behind her, catching up on their scrappy mounts, giving their own array of battle cries and animal calls. They joined the heaving, confusing mass of men and Marion began laying about with the sword, inelegantly hacking with force at whatever tried to approach her and pull her down from her horse's back. It was ungraceful, but effective. Around her, the boys fanned out, using maces, clubs, slings, and other small, close-quarter weapons as well as they could.

Behind Marion and the boys, the rest of the archers came riding down from the clifftop. The armies were well and truly enmeshed, and the risk of hitting their own soldiers was too great. "Archers, forward!" went up the call, and they formed their own rough charge, a scraggly line of horsemen, to bolster the English forces, the bright orange hair of Will Scarlet leading the pack.

The archers joined up mostly with the boys of Sherwood, compensating both of their lack of skill in close combat with overwhelming numbers. Some English knights, their horses killed, injured, or run off, continued to fight on foot, including Little John, who fought better on his own two feet anyway, and had sent his horse running around the battlefield to add to the confusion. He became a whirling dervish then, his quarterstaff never still in his hands, laying great devastation all around him. Friar Tuck, too, was doing his very best, lending his skill with a staff to the English cause, a chainmail hood hanging half-hidden beneath his friar's cassock.

Anxious at being held back, King John yelled, "Forward!" and charged into the battle as well.

"Protect the King!" Marshal screamed, kicking his horse to follow closely behind John to protect him. He may not have liked this King very much, but it was the only King they had, and allowing the King to die today would play right into Philip's hands. The other barons quickly followed suit.

In a momentary lull that spread around her, Marion lifted her visor and clearly saw Godfrey. An anger the likes of which she had never known before rose in her chest, almost choking her. "This is for you, Walter," she muttered, and slammed the visor back down. She made straight for Godfrey.

As the black knight was heading along the waterline, she urged her horse into close quarters with his, managing to unbalance him enough to push him off his mount and into the water. The water was shallow, however, and Godfrey quickly recovered his feet and made for this upstart knight who had dared to attack him so personally and so directly.

Marion tried to maintain the advantage the horse's height gave her, but Godfrey almost embarrassingly easily pulled her from the saddle into the sea spray with him. Instead of allowing this other knight to get his feet and face him with a sword, Godfrey pushed him under the water, trying to drown the other knight.

Robin watched as Marion was pulled off her horse and pushed beneath the waves. His only thought was to get to her before she came to serious harm. As Godfrey grabbed the front of her armor and pulled his sword back to run her through via the slit in her visor, Robin bore down on him, using the grey destrier's momentum to tackle Godfrey away from Marion, who continued to choke on seawater.

"Marion!" Robin yelled, fighting against the water to reach her. Robin felt the water Godfrey inadvertently kicked up as he pulled his sword free and turned to face the threat, his sword raised to parry the blow from the black knight. Robin had his hands full just trying to block Godfrey's blows, which came one after the other. It was all Robin could do to simply block; he did not have the sword training Godfrey did. He'd have to find a way to disengage the black knight and let a more trained, experienced fighter take Godfrey.

Even the best-laid plans made no difference during a battle, however. Robin glanced over his shoulder and saw two French vessels pushing inexorably towards him. His brain was already trying to come up with ways to either avoid being crushed, or use the boats to somehow gain an advantage over Godfrey. Perhaps if he were to get onto the solid deck of one he'd have the height over the other man…

The boats pushing the water and the tide coming in combined were making the water level rise quickly. What had started around his ankles was already up around Robin's waist and was beginning to interfere with his ability to bring the sword up to block Godfrey's blade. And now, the boats were practically on top of Robin. Some French soldiers on the decks of these boats started harassing him from above, now, too, stretching Robin's defenses thin and distracting him from Godfrey's frontal assault.

With one mighty wave, the two French vessels converged in a sickening groan and creaking of smashing wood. Godfrey looked for a way to get at Robin but was literally blocked by the walls of the boats. Robin did the only thing he could do – he gulped in a huge breath of air and ducked under the water.

Fleeing French soldiers and the waves pushed the vessels apart again and Robin surged up, rising from the water like an angered river god of legend, his sword raised and ready to meet Godfrey's. However, Godfrey wasn't there. While Robin had been fighting the boats and the men on them, other soldiers had tried to engage Godfrey from the sides. Fighting them off, Godfrey glimpsed his horse, which had miraculously stuck close by him after he'd been pushed out of its saddle. As the horse truly panicked and started to run, Godfrey grabbed the reins and horse's mane in one hand, the saddle with the other, and used the horse's momentum and rocking gait to hoist himself into the saddle.

This couldn't be happening – Godfrey was going to get away. Robin couldn't let that happen. He ran through the water to a dead French soldier and relieved the man of his bow and a single arrow. Robin nocked the arrow to the bowstring, pausing to hastily swipe blood dripping down his face from a gash in his forehead. Salt water stung his eyes. He put the pain and irritation aside and focused on Godfrey's cowardly, retreating back, now raised above the common level of the battle on his horse. Everything else seemed to fall away; it wasn't important. The only thing that mattered was the target – in this instance, the black square that was Godfrey's back, and the silver glint of the hood of his chainmail hauberk that hung down from his neck.

Robin raised the bow and stared down the arrow's shaft, past the arrowhead, to the target. In his head, automatically, he went through the steps. His hand drew the bowstring back so his thumb grazed his cheek. The target was moving. He slowly, steadily, raised the bow to compensate, measuring the speed with which his target was fleeing with the angle of the bow. His muscles knew what to do. When he had the exact right elevation on the bow, he released the arrow, not so much out of conscious thought as instinct.

Robin watched as the arrow flew straight and true. He wondered if Godfrey heard the arrow's song – the lethal buzz as it moved through the air at high speed – before it embedded itself through the black knight's neck.

He didn't care. He threw the bow away from him and ran over to where Marion was, still on her back and in the water. God must surely be watching out for her, because she had not been attacked by any soldiers – they were probably too busy fleeing back to France to take notice of one soldier downed in the water. Robin reached her side and pulled her into his lap as he knelt down beside her.

"Marion!" he pulled her up so her head was well clear of the water and gently eased the visor up. Blood mixed with salt water dripped off his face onto hers, making an ugly red stain on her cheek. As he made to pull her toward the beach, her helm fell off completely and floated beside her head. He put a hand to her face.

At the gentle touch, Marion opened her eyes, realizing she was clear of the water's drag and being cradled against a familiar chest. Another drop of Robin's blood fell on her face and then she was engulfed by him, his presence, his smell, the feel of his arms around her, and his taste as he leaned forward and kissed her desperately. She put a hand to the back of his head to hold him there so she could kiss him thoroughly back. She ignored everything around her, even the waves that were pounding into them and doing their best to unbalance the two. The only thing that mattered was this man, whom she loved dearly.

Robin slowly came back to reality. He was surrounded not by French soldiers disembarking their ships, but English soldiers pushing the French back into the Channel, menacing them, shaking their weapons threateningly. The French laid down their weapons, held up their hands in the universal gesture of surrender, and were making for their ships. Robin bent down and, just like in the bog, slipped one arm behind Marion's knees, the other already around her shoulders, and lifted her clear of the water. Exhausted by her efforts and the unfamiliar weight of the full chainmail, Marion allowed him to carry her, bridal-style, back to the safety of the beach.

As Robin made his slow way to the shore – Marion in her armor and wet clothes was a lot heavier than last time – a great shout rose about him. In the back of his mind was the vague, glad idea that they had won, that they had defeated the French invasion fleet. Shouts of "Longstride!" and "Robin!" went up as the men saluted and cheered his victory. All he really wanted to do, though, was go home.

On his way up the beach, he came across his horse. Glad the faithful beast had survived the ordeal, he assisted Marion onto its back and led them away from the battle. Before he had reached the fork in the path that had been the starting place, he had collected three more horses, which had calmed quickly after the excitement and craze of the battle and were looking for a leader to take them home. Robin happily transferred Marion to another horse and mounted his grey, and they set off for Nottingham, choosing to let the King, barons, and Sir William Marshal sort out the details of the victory and of the charter.

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Ooookay, folks, that's the last of the heavy-serious stuff. Glad you made it through the battle alright with me. Again, fight scenes are hard to write, so any feedback you can offer on that front is massively appreciated. Well, it's been a long journey, and we only have one more chapter to go - onward and forward!


	10. 10: Life in the Greenwood

**Author's Note** : You made it! Thanks for reading all the way to the last chapter! And can I just say on a totally irrelevant tangent, how excited I am that this story came out to 10 chapters (10 is my favorite number). ANYWAY... let's wrap this whole mess up. Once again, we have some great interaction with the runaways of Sherwood. I love the idea of another story set post-movie that looks at life in Sherwood and how these adults fit into the boys' world. Any thoughts and ideas are welcome!

I present to you: THE FINAL CHAPTER

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A week later, the news had reached Nottingham of King John's refusal to sign the charter. Robin was not overly surprised by this news. He had seen many of King John's ilk before – men who lusted after power but lacked the charisma, force, levelheadedness, and head for strategy that marked out truly great leaders of men. But what could John really do to him, out here in the north country, surrounded by friends? For Robin was a leader of men – he had the respect of the Nottingham townspeople for returning their dignity and way of life to them, as well as proven himself a capable strategist and thinker and loyal, skilled fighter. The people liked him, and he always had a smile and kind word for them when they waved 'hello' to him from the fields when he rode by.

As secrets were wont to do, it became known that he was not, in fact, Sir Robert returned, but plain Robin Longstride – hero of the battle against the French. Robin suspected Allan had a hand in spreading some tall tales of his deeds in the evenings, singing and drinking with the locals.

The Sheriff of Nottingham got what he wanted – no longer landless, King John granted him the rights and ownership of Peper Harow and the surrounding countryside. He was, however, to maintain his duties as the local representative of the King's authority and remained Sheriff. So it was that Robin was told the Sheriff was due to make an announcement – direct from London and King John himself. Not wanting to miss this bit of news concerning his fate, Robin pulled the cowl of his hood further over his head and hid behind a nearby tree from where the Sheriff was due to make his announcement.

A few minutes after the appointed time – the Sheriff was not big on punctuality unless it was his time being wasted – the Sheriff arrived, parchment in hand. He walked up to the tree that was used by the people of Nottingham as a wall for posted signs and turned to face the assembled townsfolk.

"Hear me! Hear me!" he called for silence, even though the assembly was already silent, waiting to find out what King John had to say. The Sheriff was nothing if not full of his own self-importance. "By Royal Decree: Robin Longstride, also known as Robin of the Hood, and all who shelter him or aid him, are declared outlaws of the realm, their properties forfeit, and their lives shall be taken by any Englishman on sight," the Sheriff read from the parchment in his hand.

Finished reading, he gave the crowd a last look, then turned to the tree. With his right hand he held the parchment against the trunk, then realized he had come without a hammer or nail to affix the parchment to the trunk. He turned to the assembly. "A nail, please, and a hammer," he gestured insolently for the tools to be handed over. No one moved. "A nail!" he yelled, impatient with these insolent peasants.

From his hiding place Robin grinned. The Sheriff had a lot in common with King John, it appeared, and he could understand how the two were friends. Robin fitted an arrow to the bow he carried under one arm. The Sheriff hadn't come prepared with a nail and hammer – Robin would assist him. He was, after all, a man who liked to give back to his community. Robin pulled the string back, took careful aim, and released.

As the arrow found its mark between the first two fingers of the Sheriff's hand, the crowd buzzed and craned their necks, looking for where the arrow had been shot from, but Robin had already left, knowing the arrow would find its target. The sound of the townsfolk's laughter at his joke followed him into Sherwood. Several meters inside the trees he found his horse exactly where he'd tied him. He took the reins, mounted quickly, and set off for the camp he and his men had made – well, joined, really: it was the boys' camp. Loop had offered them its use in exchange for what Robin had offered before – lessons in knot-tying, bow- and arrow-making, and other useful woodsman skills.

Robin slowed his horse to a walk and was joined by Will, Allan, and Little John. Each man carried a string of rabbits or pheasants, their contribution to the efficient running of the Sherwood camp. Little John in fact was starting their career as outlaws on a high note, a poached King's deer slung easily across his strong, wide shoulders.

They were joined by Friar Tuck, carrying a fishing pole and line, with a string of fish in his other hand and a look of triumph on his face. A number of boys came circling around behind the small band on their shaggy ponies, escorting them into the camp proper. As they approached, Robin looked up, and could just barely make out the shape of a boy high in the foliage of a tree, watching them approach, as vigilant as any sentry in the Tower of London.

The camp thrummed with life as Robin led the small procession into the camp proper. Some boys were over to one side, practicing their knot-tying. Others were taking care of the camp ponies, leading them from one patch of grazing to another, grooming them, feeding them, and patting them. Others were busy at work repairing some of their mud huts, which were prone to the elements and disintegration. The huts were one of the first things Robin was going to work with the boys on improving. That and hunting – he could see a few boys returning with an occasional hare or fish of their own. Other boys returned with firewood and kindling scrounged from the forest floor. Some boys were busy stringing together old bones and hollowed out twigs with twine, making more of the spooky-sounding 'talismans' that were extremely effective at keeping other people out of Sherwood and perpetuating the myth that the forest was haunted.

And in the center of it all was Marion, with the table to the side of the main fire she had set up with her medicines and healing herbs. She was spooning some sort of tonic into one boy's mouth. Checking to make sure he swallowed the medicine, she sent him on his way. "Off you go. Come on," she said, gesturing for the next boy in line waiting for her ministrations.

Marion turned at the men's approach and watched as, no sooner than Robin's feet hit the ground, a huge group of boys swamped him, each desperate for attention. And over their rabble Marion heard, "Hey, boys. You've been practicing tying your knots?" and saw Robin ruffle the hair of the boys closest to him.

"Yes!" the boys replied, eager to show Robin how much they'd improved just that afternoon and win his approval.

"Have you been shooting your bow and arrows? Who hit something? Anyone?" Robin was asking as he led his horse over to where the ponies were kept, the boys following in a massive, growing cluster. Marion came to the half-door of the quickly-constructed lean-to that served as her 'healer's hut' and watched the boys follow Robin about the camp, as if he was the Pied Piper, asking him questions, showing off their knots and new bows, and asking ceaseless questions.

Marion smiled, thinking, _The greenwood is the outlaw's friend._ The orphan boys made them welcome. There were no taxes here or tithes for the church. Nobody was rich and nobody was poor – they were just people, coming together and helping one another out. And, most importantly, fair shares for all at Nature's table – no more worrying about seed corn or harvests, as all they needed they could hunt and gather in the woods. Sure, there were many wrongs to be righted under King John's rule… but Walter was surely looking over them and smiling. Marion, too, looked out over the camp that was now her home.

Allan A'Dayle, Robin's companion, was sitting with Lettie, strumming his lute as he talked to her. Marion smiled – they would be a good match. Lettie was quiet, but, once convinced to perform, had a lovely singing voice that, in the long nights ahead, would be welcome entertainment, along with Allan's accompaniment. Will Scarlet was teaching one of the older boys how to cut up vegetables – they were going to have stew that evening, and no one was handier with a dagger than Will. Little John had deposited the deer carcass he carried by the smoker's hut, another recent addition to the camp, and then went over to the hut he would share with Sarah. Marion was very glad Sarah had found someone who appreciated her, and wasn't taking her on as charity. Sarah was a big, strapping woman, and had confided to Marion once that a lot of men felt intimidated by her size. Sarah also told Marion that Little John had laughed when she'd confided that sorry truth to him, and said she was 'just about his size and perfect in every way.' There would be a wedding soon, Marion knew.

Robin had made sure to speak to every lad, whom he knew by name now, although he still sometimes got the twins mixed up. He spied Marion at her healer's hut, watching the goings-on around the camp. She had really taken to her new role as the surrogate mother of the Sherwood boys, as well as their camp healer. He picked up the last boy, tossed him in the air and caught him, like his father had done to him, and then set the little boy down on the ground. He had just managed to catch Marion's eye, and had been waiting for the boys to get through their greetings for him before he found his own homecoming.

Marion caught Robin's eye and returned his wide smile. She made her way around the lean-to that was her domain and made straight for him. They met in the middle of the camp, Robin's arm reaching out to grab her, and she snaking her arm around him as well. Thusly entwined, they moved about each other, rotating, drinking in the sight of the other, for time apart was time wasted, at least, Marion felt. She had missed him, that was for sure. Sensing her joyful mood, Robin ceased their spinning and picked her up. Caught off guard, Marion set her hands on his shoulders to keep them balanced and laughed delightedly. Oh, how she loved this man.

* * *

I have to admit, this is a bittersweet moment for me. I took a brief hiatus writing this story because I didn't want it to end. But I'm also extremely proud of myself for finishing it, because I am notoriously bad at finishing projects halfway through (and this was no small undertaking!). So now - go hit the like/review button(s) if you haven't already. My soul lives off of feedback from others, so any little bit helps. Let me know what you thought and suggestions for further stories in this universe (or I guess others if you really liked me/my writing style that much idk). I love you all, thank you again for sticking out this journey with me!

Also - if you found this exercise in converting a movie to novel form, I encourage you to check out the actual published version of the movie novelization:

Robin Hood: The Story Behind the Legend by David B. Coe... based on the screenplay by Brian Helgeland / and the story by Brian Helgeland and Ethan Reiff & Cyrus Voris

I recommend the book highly, but then again, I'm a massive Robin Hood geek. Happy reading!


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